Cat and Mouse
by VKlepto
Summary: Minerva is a student, and Albus is a teacher. The problem is, they're both having trouble remembering it. MMAD!
1. Lemon Drops

_**Disclaimer:**__ Not mine, sadly; I do, however, own a lovely carpet that sits in my bedroom. If you would like to sue me for claiming to own that you can._

_**A/N:**__ Okay! Woohoo. This is my first attempt at a multi-part story in ages, so please bare with me. This is going to be set whislt McGonagall is a student and Dumbledore is a teacher of Transfiguration, just to be clear. Uhm, if I make any time-line-ish errors, please don't hesitate to slap me across the face and tell me to fix them... I know more or less where I'm going with this, but suggestions and/or requests are welcomed and appreciated- because that means people are reading and reviewing, which, ultimately, makes my life worth living. Ha. Haha. I define lame... This chapter here is more specifically set on the first day of Minerva's first year._

_**UPDATED JAN. 12, 2010: **__Foremost, consider the above disclaimer a disclaimer for the entire story. I'm a starving student studying writing, so let's be honest: you're not getting more than five cents if you sue me anyway. And, most importantly, this story has finally been beta read by the fabulous, fantastic, brilliant, stupendous, awesome Bola, who is, in fact, my lover (she might deny it if you ask. No idea why this is). You should stop by her page and read her stories. And review. And give her cookies. Because I alone simply don't have enough gratitude to extend to her radiant self._  


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_Late, late, late!_ Minerva mentally screamed as she tucked her books under her arm and shot down the hallway, a one-person wrecking crew tearing through clusters of students with no reservations whatsoever. Her green eyes were narrowed with determination, her narrow arms pumped as if she were about to take flight, and soon Minerva found herself turning the knob of the door to an empty room- she sighed heavily with relief. She had feared for a moment that she was going to be late for being early to her first class of the school year. Looking at the peculiarly aslant clock hanging on the wall parallel to her, she smiled thinly with satisfaction; ten minutes before any other students arrived at least. It would give her plenty of time to familiarize herself with the classroom, and potentially the Transfiguration Professor. Tucking a tendril of black hair that had fallen from her bun behind her ear, the eleven-year-old walked with a certain amount of purpose further into the classroom, scanning the area for any sign of her new teacher.

She needn't have worried about locating him.

Albus Dumbledore sat cross-legged in the front of the room, and his vibrant violet robes were dotted with eccentric celestial patterns that sparkled brightly whenever he breathed and rustled the fabric. No, he wasn't hard to spot at all. His auburn hair was long and neat, coming just below his shoulders, although Minerva got the feeling he did not plan on cutting it any time soon. His beard was just beginning to grow, it seemed, and the frizzy ginger tresses softened his sharp features considerably. His eyes flicked open as if she had addressed him, and Professor Dumbledore stared at her with a queer smile on his thin lips, his blue eyes twinkling merrily behind half-moon spectacles.

She liked him immediately.

"Would you like a lemon drop, Miss McGonagall?" He asked her calmly, waving his hand airily and summoning a small box from his desk. He lurched forwards with a swiftness she had not anticipated and held the container out to her, his eyebrows raised curiously. Dumbledore's eyes seemed to probe her of their own accord though they never left her face; she had the oddest sensation that he was looking more through than at her.

"Excuse me, sir... a what?"

Dumbledore chuckled and peeled the lid away, revealing a mass of several yellow candies. He nodded encouragingly and Minerva smiled tentatively, reaching her hand in and taking one out. She examined it for a split second before popping it into her mouth- a notion which she immediately regretted. Her lips puckered with the sourness of the treat, and she knew she must have looked rather strange; her features were severe to begin with, but as she sucked in her cheeks in a cursory reaction, all of the skin on her young face was pulled tight like the strings of a violin. Her face turned red as she swallowed the lemon drop and Dumbledore laughed once more. Nodding her head respectfully she turned away and sat down on one of the silver chairs waiting, and spent the rest of the ten minutes rearranging her books, feeling utterly mortified and wondering whether or not she should revoke the thought of liking the Professor.

Minerva watched her new classmates arrive through the corners of her eyes, and noticed with some sort of pride that Dumbledore did not offer any of them a lemon drop.


	2. Of Ghosts and Glances

_**Disclaimer:** I was kidding about the carpet._

_**A/N:** Chapter Two. I'm on a roll. Hope you enjoy this one and the last... I realize I didn't really give anyone time to review so... sorry. xD This is set in Minerva's second year. By the way, I thought I'd mention I won't be jumping from year to year like this the whole time-- there'll be one chapter for each of her six years and then the bulk of the story will focus on her seventh year._

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"Focus, Miss McGonagall," he said, tilting his head slightly and pursing his lips as if taking his own advice. She grunted in an unladylike response, obviously saying that she already was _quite_ focused, thankyouverymuchProfessor. The corners of his lips twitched. She breathed deeply, her green eyes never leaving the squiggling worm on the table that she was to turn into a fountain pen. With a flick of her wand and a flurry of murmured words, the worm sparked and her wand spluttered. When the smoke cleared, she peered forwards with juvenile hopefulness, only to find that her worm had divided into two. Minerva stifled a cry of displeasure, leaning back in her seat; that was as close as Minerva McGonagall ever got to admitting failure.

"I can't do it, Professor."

"You can." He returned slowly, his blue eyes as jovial as always as they fixed upon her own disgruntled gaze. Somehow, when he spoke like that, she always believed him. Leaning forwards once more, Minerva repeated the process and the worm instantly became a pen. Dumbledore stood up and grinned broadly down at her, nodding his head. "Splendid. I knew you could."

His pride in her made her glow obviously, her sharp features softened and blurred by the momentary happiness of completing the task. Minerva had learned rather quickly that she had little to no Transfiguration apptitude. Dumbledore was the only thing that kept her from dreading the class each day, and he had been the one who had taken so much time out of his own schedule during her first year to keep her from failing. Slowly but surely she was gaining confidence, and with the aid of the lessons he gave her each week she was sure she would be up to par soon. She was Minerva McGonagall, and she _did not_ fail _anything_. Stifling her grin, feeling foolish, and reaching her hands up to pull her hair into a tighter bun, the twelve year old stared at the pen before her, the pride easy to ascertain in her eyes.

Dumbledore nodded once more and turned away, moving towards his desk as he began to sort through some papers by hand. She wondered why he didn't just transfigurate all of the paperwork into a bunch of pens too. Stacking her books, Minerva stood up and surveyed the room absently. In the two years since she had first set eyes on this classroom, it had come to scream Albus Dumbledore louder and louder until she could hardly look at the ornate, somwhat tacky desks without stealing a glance at her favorite Professor. The carpet was plush and a striking shade of purple; the curtains were black decorated with large, colorful stars. The chairs and desks were silver with nonsensical pictures engraved almost all over, and there were gizmos and gadgets cluttered all around. The classroom had a distinct homey feel to it so far as Minerva was concerned, and it was most definately a Dumbledore thing. Making people feel at home.

"Uh, sir?"

"Miss McGonagall?"

"Would it be possible for me to come by tomorrow after classes again? For help, that is, Professor."

"I expect nothing less," he responded lightly as if he had been waiting for her to ask, his pale hands stroking his ginger-colored beard almost thoughtfully as he looked at her. For a moment there was something peculiarly unfamiliar in his blue eyes, but she blinked and it was instantly gone, replaced by the twinkle she had grown to love.

"Thank you, sir. I really appreciate all the help that you've given me." He bowed his head and smiled in playfull modesty. The corners of her lips twitched upwards and she moved towards his desk and helped herself to a lemon drop, as she did every day, and not once did her face pucker unpleasantly. He chuckled softly before she left, a tradition they had honed with time, and she felt his eyes on her back as she walked away. Once again she left with the distinct feeling that he had not actually looked _at_ her the entire time. She felt as if he had been staring through her as if she were some sort of transparent ghost with a puzzle he wanted to solve within.

Behind her, though neither knew it, Dumbledore was thinking such that confirmed her theory rather soundly.


	3. A Natural Veritaserum

_**Disclaimer: **Not. Mine. Carpets._

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Minerva McGonagall had always been almost invariably composed. It was one of the things that made Albus hold her in such high regards as a student and a person. She was rarely without eloquence and he had never, ever seen her do something rash and uncouth. She did not talk during class, did not cause trouble, and to his knowledge the only time she had ever received detention it was given by himself in order to tutor her privately without her friends taunting her about being teacher's pet. But even that had not bothered her. The only flaw he had ever seen in her was her quickness to believe in her own failure, even while she thought nobody else could be in the wrong-- and even that had been rectified some since her first year. Minerva McGonagall was, and always would be, the definition of polite and calm. 

Which was why he was so perturbed when she showed up for one of their tutoring sessions with red, blotchy patches on her pale face and swollen eyes that told him she had been crying. He only looked at her through the corner of his eyes at first, giving her some privacy as she composed herself a bit before seating herself in the same chair she had taken the first day of her first year. "Sorry I am late, Professor. I was detained."

"Oh?" He said softly as he turned to look at her, his voice prying gently. His blue eyes were troubled as he looked upon his favorite student, his fingers instinctively toying with his auburn beard that grew ever longer as he waited for a response. She was silent for several minutes; her eyes were skittish and her bony hands fumbled in uncharacteristic anxiousness together. He stood silently before her, now leaning his knuckles against her desk and patiently waiting for her to speak. It occurred to him that, for Miss McGonagall, he would have waited hours. The thought both calmed and disturbed him at the same time. Dumbledore crouched lower so that his weight was on the balls of his feet, his chin almost resting on her desk as he stared at her, his blue eyes imploring her silently to confide in him. He did not like to see such tumult behind the glassy, emerald surface of her eyes. And then, as if his gaze had pushed her off of the precipice of reservation, it all fell from her mouth like an avalanche of prototypical teenage angst.

"I, uh... everybody has been saying, uh, that Edgar Bones has a thing for me, you know? And so I asked Rolanda Hooch to talk to him for me and see what he thinks about me. Because nobody ever likes me, Professor, and I thought..." she trailed off and looked down. Still Dumbledore was silent, his face concerned and his mind open. Minerva didn't even feel the least bit odd to be confiding about such personal matters with her Transfiguration Professor; part of her felt odd that she didn't feel more uncomfortable. His presence was like a blanket that dulled the emotional bashing she had taken, and she snuggled tightly beneath it, wishing to never let it go. "And I didn't think that... he said that I was mean, Professor. He said that I was ugly and mean and too uptight and he wouldn't go out with me if somebody payed him... and I don't know who started the rumor, Professor, b-but I guess it wasn't him..." Silence swept across the room for a moment, and she bowed her head, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. "I thought somebody wanted me for once, sir. For something other than homework help."

Minerva leaned forwards on her desk, folding her hands in front of her and meeting the Professor's eyes hesitantly. His face was creased into an almost weary smile, and once again there was something in his eyes that she couldn't fathom. He too leaned forwards and covered her small, pale hands with his own, squeezing gently.

"I think, Miss McGonagall, and do not doubt me for I am rarely wrong in my thoughts, but I think that Mr. Bones is a little daft," Dumbledore said finally, his blue eyes entrancing, and she wavered slightly, feeling as if she was about to fall into an ocean of crystalline water. "For you are neither ugly nor mean, and uptight is extreme if anything, but never a bad thing." Minerva smiled and nodded her thanks, and Dumbledore answered her grin in full, peering at her over his spectacles once again as if he had never seen her before in his life-- something foreign that had fallen into his classroom. The room swelled with quietude and in that very moment Dumbledore realized two things.

Minerva McGonagall was a remarkable young woman, and the promise of understanding was a powerful Veritaserum.


	4. Distancing

**_A/N_**: _Okay! Muchos gracias to my lovely two reviewers, Rabbit of Woe and J. Your comments are appreciated greatly. And... yeah, I'm updating an insane amount today, haha. Overcompensating for a bombed softball tournament, I guess, heh. This is set in Minerva's fourth year._

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He was a _Professor_, and not a student. 

_Well duh_, he mentally supplied with an inward roll of his eyes. The problem was, on some level he was seemingly unaware of the fact as he watched his students move fluidly about the dance floor in the first dance of the night. Multicolored dresses and robes billowed and twisted like bell-shaped flowers flaring in a breeze and the muffled pitter-patter of dress shoes against the tile floor made like raindrops. Leaning against the teacher's table in the great hall, Albus found himself humming not to the song that was playing, but to an imaginary melody being created by the student's dancing.

So long as he looked at them as a whole he was okay. Skimmed his eyes here and there without pausing to focus on every face. The problem-- the blurring line of his station at Hogwarts --was a certain fourth year who was standing on the edge of the dance floor.

The most beautiful wall flower in the room, to be sure. Her features were as severe as always, but even the light coat of make-up she had used for the occasion (something typically absent) softened her face and gave her a look of personal effulgence, the pale powder on her skin making her almond-shaped eyes more vivid. Her dress was conservative-- Albus had expected nothing less --but provacative all the same; dark green material shimmered like metal, with fitted sleeves and a rather shapeless body. It left the mind to wonder what exactly lay beneath the emerald fortress every time she moved and the fabric hugged part of her gently, revealing her slender body and newly formed curves. But, therein lay the problem. Albus Dumbledore was a teacher, and a rather old one at that. He should not have been wondering about a student's undergarments or what was _beneath _them.

He felt almost sickened by his thoughts-- here they all that him respectable, but he was just a peverse old man. Part of him argued, however, since he truly hadn't even looked at any other students, but mostly, he just felt a hint of nausea. Wavering against the table, Dumbledore tore his gaze away from Minerva, muttered a few terse and remote farewells to some colleagues, and made his way across the great hall, keeping to the shadows so as not to draw attention to himself-- several students were grabbing at teachers and dragging them onto the dance floor for friendly, playful dances. He would leave quickly and silently and return to his room and remain there reading until dawn.

Except she looked so lonely...

And without really realizing it Dumbledore made his way to his favorite student and paused at her side, watching her through the corner of his half-moond spectacles as she eyed the fraternizing population almost jealously, her fingers steepling together and pulling away in a continuous, anxious tic. She looked up and smiled weakly when she realized he was there.

"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," she said, her voice the essence of calm-- he nodded deeply, always impressed with her composure though he could almost feel her diffidence undulating off of her in waves.

"Good evening, Miss McGonagall," he returned with a small smile, though she gave him a quick and quizzical glance as he spoke-- even Albus realized how unusually strained his voice sounded. Little did he knew that her worry had not come from the tone of his voice so much as the guardedness of his eyes. She was confused about their lack of twinkle. "I could not help but notice that you seem rather firmly glued to this wall."

She snorted.

"And since I rather like standing against the wall as well, I thought, why, Professor Dumbledore, nothing would make more sense than to glue yourself to the same door as Miss McGonagall over there." He paused and watched the smile on her face grow slightly; encouraged, he continued. "But then I realized that I would only be feeding your addiction, so I rethought the situation, and decided the best mode of action would be to remove you from the wall in favor of a more open setting-- could I, perhaps, entice you to dance?"

She looked at him curiously once again, though her smile was very wide by now, tiny dimples in her cheeks making his own grin grow more robust. Students all over were dancing with their favorite Professors, and since most knew of Dumbledore's attachment to Minerva them dancing would not be looked too closely in to, and he was sure she would not look past the surface either.

"Sir, you have too many thoughts." She stated bluntly, laughing tersely as she took his outstretched hand. She grinned like a child looking at her father, he thought, as they wove a trail across the dance floor, his hand just barely touching her waist, their hands just barely ghosting across eachother. Every time he moved he had to be careful not to do anything he would regret, and it pained him more than he could say when he finally had to admit that the admiration he held for the young girl had gone past healthy levels. The song slowed and Minerva made no move to leave and though Albus tried to walk away. He was quickly reeled back in and his eyes were torn from the star he had been fixated on to look at her pretty, youthful face, and he couldn't help the frown that creased his lips as he moved his eyes once again and stared pointedly over her shoulder-- not such a feat, as her head barely came to _his_ shoulder.

The song ended and he managed to escape gracefully, though he left feeling as if he had caused her confusion. Leaning against the wall of the hallway outside of the Great Hall, Dumbledore promised himself two things at once.

He would give her an extra lemon drop tomorrow and he would begin to distance himself from the girl he had deemed remarkble-- she was, it seemed, simply too remarkable for his tastes.


	5. Scottish Temper

**_A/N:_** _I'm determined to get to Minerva's seventh year TONIGHT, dammit. So this is year five. Two more to go!_

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Ever since Dumbledore had deigned to dance with her at the ball, Minerva had felt that she owed him something. Every day following the dance, even until the last day of her fifth year, she showed up in his classroom early for every class and at twilight every day for private lessons. He was never unhappy to see her, but sometimes when she arrived his merry blue eyes were clouded with something strange that she couldn't quite place-- occasionally the fortifications he seemed to have erected faltered and she saw the twinkling Professor she had grown to adore, but otherwise, she was rather perplexed. Not only was Albus Dumbledore her mentor, inspiration, and favorite teacher, but he had become her most informed confidante and best friend.

Of course, she would never say it. Rolanda would be so annoyed if she ever revealed she told more to the wizened old wizard than she did her own friend... but that was only one reason. The other was a sheer will to impress-- Minerva did not want him to think her childish. The idea of him thinking anything negative about her cut her in a million different ways, and so the intense desire to please him drove her to not only study Transfiguration with him, but in her free time as well.

In a short year, she had moved from barely passing to top of her class. Unfortunately, it seemed that Dumbledore had not noticed.

She was standing in his oddly decorated classroom, a look of irritation on her features as she stared at the top of his head, bowed over papers, as he muttered some words of approval at her most recent undertaking-- an extremely _advanced_ spell that _nobody_ in her class, or likely any class could do, and _still_ his acceptance was remote at best. Her wand hand was still poised over her subject, and her emerald eyes flicked erratically from Professor to quarry, Professor to quarry like a sentinel on watch. She felt her temper flare and her composure falter, the tight smile on her lips overturning rapidly to produce a grimace.

"Was that good, sir?"

"Mmm," he responded, glancing up at her with a half-smile before poring over his papers once again. She dropped her hands to her sides, thrumming her fingers against the cool wood of her wand irately.

"Are those papers interesting, sir?"

"Mmm."

"More interesting than transfiguration, sir?"

"I daresay," Dumbledore said with a quiet chuckle, leaning back slightly in his chair. The tiny waves of anger she had been giving out instantly exploded into a roaring typhoon-- there was a reason people avoided her wrath. Emerald eyes flashed dangerously, and her wrist twitched slightly as she momentarily considered hexing him, though swiftly shot down that thought as she would likely not only end up with detention, but would probably reap no reward. She stood no chance against Dumbledore in a duel, for obvious reasons.

Strutting up to his desk, Minerva slammed her balled hands against the ornate oak with an echoing clatter. Pain flowed through her hands and she had to resist a squeal, her lips pursed, her sharp features tight and taut as she glared at him, her anger clear on every line of her visage. He looked up, finally, his pale eyes as hard as two marbles as he met her gaze. She recognized an echo of shock rolling across his countenance for a moment, but soon it was the distantly bemused expression he wore almost constantly.

"Yes, Miss McGonagall?"

"Have I done something to anger you, _sir_?" She hissed, clenching her fingers around the edge of the desk.

"Of course not. What is this all about, Miss McGonagall?"

"You're not paying attention!" She exploded. "This _whole year_ you've been acting as if you are in a completely different _country_ than I am, not to mention the lack of tutoring that you actually do during our study sessions. That--" Minerva pointed to her spell "--was amazing, especially for a _fifth year_, sir, _Professor_. And all you can say is _mmm!_" She was breathing heavily as she concluded, and he simply eyed her with a more obvious interest, the twinkle in his blue eyes resuming for the first time in what seemed like ages.

"And for Merlin's sake, call me Minerva!"

With that, she stormed out of the room, leaving a bemused and partially stunned Albus Dumbledore in her wake. Unfortunately she had left all of her books at the desk, and was forced to reenter a few hours later-- after she had calmed --and Minerva had to face a much more amicable transfiguration Professor.


	6. An Owl Away

_**A/N:**_ _Ah! Reviews! I love you people, haha. I'm too easily excited, I guess, but... yay! And I'm sorry (especially to Jessicaisfabulous as she expressed and interest in me completing my goal) that I fail at life and getting to chapter seven. Oy vey, I was writing at 1 AM and felt that the quality of the chapters was taking a vicious nose dive. Also, Anonomous, I'm not sure how old Dumbledore would be... I'm too lazy to check. So... pick an age, any age. Set in Minerva's sixth year._

She stood before Hogwarts with a distant look on her face, and her green eyes seemed to not only see the steep towers and graceful archways, but miles upon miles beyond-- past, present, and musings of future played in her mind as she looked at the school she had grown to love. The final day of sixth year had finally arrived and the only word she could think of to label it would be bittersweet. Although Minerva didn't mind school and even relished the mental excersize, she could not deny that a break would be nice. And next year she would be a seventh year-- top of the food chain, and officially legal and allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts. Excitement thrummed through her at the thought.

On the down side, she would miss the windy corridors and musty stairwells. She would miss her friends and the Gryffindor common room. She would miss the Quidditch matches and the food in the great hall-- a vast improvement over her mother's dreadful cooking. She would definitely miss the moving portraits, especially the one of a wizened alchemist near the dungeons with whom she had had many interesting conversations. She would _not_ miss most of her classes, though Minerva had no idea how she'd managed to go without Dumbledore's lessons during summers prior. The idea of going weeks without being able to talk to her favorite teacher was perhaps _the_ worst part about leaving Hogwarts. Wrapping her arms around herself, Minerva felt distinctly naked without her robes-- a few still cloaked students raced behind her, and she felt a rush of jealousy. She heaved a heavy sigh, and turned towards the train, only to find herself face to face with a flamboyantly clothed chest. Backpeddling and grinning, Minerva gave her favorite Professor a small nod.

"Have a nice summer, Professor," she said coolly, biting her lip slightly as she looked upon his familiar, kind countenance. Minerva traced every contour of his face as they stood before the scarlet engine, and then retraced them as he smiled warmly and the tiny lines at the corners of his blue eyes appeared. Her gaze returned to the school for a moment, and the sixth year sighed softly, giving Dumbledore a wistful glance. "I'm going to miss it here." Minerva cringed inwardly, feeling that the subtext was blaringly obvious.

"Not to worry, Miss McGonagall," he said, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. Minerva raised her brows in her usual request for him to call her by her first name, but as per the norm he responded to her wordless request with a soft chuckle. "Hogwarts is only an owl away."

Dumbledore gave her a very pointed glance, then, and Minerva felt that the subtext there was just as lacking in subtlety as her own. Feeling significantly brightened at the invitation to send him a letter or two, Minerva's smile became more genuine. She stood, staring, at Dumbledore for a few more seconds. The Hogwarts Express let out a loud puff of smoke like a weary dragon and bellowed for all of the students to climb quickly aboard. Minerva took a settling breath, nodded once more at Dumbledore as he patted her cheek fondly, and then disappeared into the closest compartment she could find. A couple of first years quite obviously did not appreciate her presence, and hushed murmurings ceased as she tucked her bag into the rack above her head. Ignoring them for the time being, Minerva peered out of the window to catch one last glance at the school and the Professor until the next year, and found herself not the least bit surprised by which her gaze lingered upon the longest. She watched him disappear until he was a speckle of ginger and a pinprick of beryl in the distance and then settled back into her seat, grinning to herself despite the heated glares the other students cast her the entire way home.


	7. Checkmate

_**A/N: **Seventh Year! Woop!_

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"Fancy a game of chess, Miss McGonagall?"

"Sir, I don't think that's really fair."

"How do you figure?" He was amused; she could hear it in his voice, which meant he knew exactly how she figured, and was simply asking her to make idle conversation. Minerva bristled with a rather familiar form of annoyance-- a strange kind of irritation that only ever bothered her inwardly, but brought a smile to her face nonetheless.

"I figure, sir, that you're going to beat me in a matter of seconds and then, Professor, I figure that you will give me a Lemon Drop as a consolation prize."

"Well figured, Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore returned with his usual lackadaisicalness, returning her grin with a thin one of his own as he conjured the chess board seemingly out of thin air despite her refusal to play. Rolling her eyes and sighing defeatedly, Minerva pulled up a chair parallel to Dumbledore's and eyed the monochromatic board before her warily. Peering up at her Professor once again, she gestured vaguely to allow him the first move. He nodded, stared at a piece, and without him even uttering a word it shifted on the board. _Show off, _she thought with a scowl, and she had the distinct impression that he could understand her thoughts precisely, for he let out a bemused chuckle under his breath though made no comment.

"Pawn to C five."

And then they began. The tiny marble pieces wove an intricate spiderweb on the wooden plane; miniature ships gliding across a willowy ocean. He would raise his eyebrows whenever she managed to capture one of his pieces, and she would frown with conviction whenever he stole one of hers. It seemed, for a fairly long time, that the game was going nowhere. Around and around and around in an endless circuit until he had four pieces left, and she had but her king and a knight. Dumbledore did not speak at all, and the only sound Minerva made were the calls for her pieces to shift. An hour passed, and distantly Minerva was aware that she would be missing dinner in the great hall, but at the moment her only conscious thoughts were of beating the Professor. She managed to knock out his bishop and his queen, leaving him with but a rook and his king. She sighed with satisfaction, leaning back in her chair with a determined expression on her face as she watched the fainted of creases mar the plane of his forehead as he examined the board closesly.

"Checkmate."

Minerva started. Blinking, she stared at the board and the entrapment she had suddenly found herself in. Color drained out of her cheeks with disappointed dread as she eyed her trapped king, two black eyebrows arching with disapproval. She leaned forwards and rested her elbows on the table, clasping her chin with her hands and eyeing every possible escape route until she came up with the usual answer: Professor Albus Dumbledore was never, _ever_ wrong.

He had said he would beat her, and he did.  
He said checkmate, and she poked her defeated king with a willowy finger and pursed her lips.

Dumbledore smiled kindly and levitated the board onto his desk, careful not to shift a single piece. He eyed her almost cautiously for a moment, and once again Minerva saw that untracable fragment of _something_ flash like a shooting star through the sky of his pale eyes, and he withdrew from the table in a flurry of bumblebee yellow robes. "You should probably return to your common room. If anybody has a problem with your tardiness, please direct their inquiries to me and it will be taken care of." He smiled kindly as he sat down at his desk, and she thought she glimpsed a hint of approval in his gaze before she nodded and left his room, and her chest swelled with pride.


	8. And Suddenly

_**A/N:** Right, Cessations! Hardly finished, hehe. I just felt the need to sort of... lay the ground work for their relationship, if you will. So the bulk of this story will be in her seventh year... and possibly an epilogue or something depending on if people are into it. Thanks for reviewing! And thank you, something-like-love, for that, haha. I do appreciate the notice-- I'll edit it soon... but right now I'm in a fit of laughter because "nob" is funny to me, somehow... I'm an odd duck, sometimes... But thank you for reviewing! And thank you also to all of the people who have subscribed to this fic-- it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and inspired. -subtle hint-_

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Thinking back, Minerva had no idea when exactly it had happened. It couldn't have been an instantaneous thing, because she probably would have noticed. It must have been gradual. Just a reaction to all the time and advice... yes, it must have been gradual. It had probably started out as simply admiration and then moved on to friendship and affection, and finally into infatuation-- but the lines between infatuation and love were frail and too easily blurred. She did not know when it happened, she decided, because it had been there all along. She had simply been unaware of it until the final line had smeared like fresh ink across parchment. She even doubted it for a moment, because it was such a peculiar thought, but as she felt his hand cover hers as he instructed her into the proper movement of her wand, Minerva McGonagall was absolutely certain of one thing.

It had happened.

After years of taunting and teasing from her peers about being teacher's pet, or being accused playfully by her friends of being in love with her transfiguration Professor... by some queer twist of fate, she had most definitely and without any questions in her mind once she got past the initial shock fallen in love with Professor Dumbledore. For all of her rational thinking and strictness, Minerva had always believed that love was a sweeping, sudden emotion; it seemed her convictions were correct, for she felt her stomach tighten like a fist as he spoke, his breath cool, and undoubtedly smelling of hot chocolate and lemon drops, against her ear.

"Miss McGonagall, are you paying attention?"

"Huh?" She blurted stupidly. Blinking and shaking her head, she added, "sir."

"Where is your mind today, my dear girl?" He asked, and it was one of those questions that she immediately knew to be rhetorical. Dumbledore asked them quite frequently, and it had taken her two years to figure it out, because often times the questions he did not want an answer to were as simple as nice weather or good work. They were cogs of his mind spoken out loud, the beginning of some internal sentence that he wanted to finish by himself. He let her hand fall, and it almost stung as if frost bitten as it dropped to her side. Minerva clumsily dropped her wand to the ground, but quickly bent to pick it up, fumbling it around between her pale fingers as she stared at the befuddled Professor almost blankly, biting her lower lip. "Are you all right, Miss McGonagall?"

She laughed nervously at the concern in his voice, though her hand swiftly flew to cover her mouth when she realized. Her green eyes looked anywhere but at Dumbledore, even though she could feel his twinkling eyes boring into her. Collecting her books, Minerva almost ran out of the classroom, calling some harried excuse over her shoulder. Once in the hall way, Minerva stopped and pressed her back against a wall, the stone surface cooling and calming through her robes. Covering her face with her quaking hands, she mentally berated herself for her behavior. She had had crushes on boys before, and not once had she allowed them to interfere with her impeccable composure. She had crushes on boys before and managed to speak to them without making a total wanker out of herself as she had just done as well. But this was no boy. This was a significantly older man, and a teacher to boot. The sudden onslaught of illicit emotions were not appreciated in the slightest, and neither was the belated thought that her first love was totally and utterly hopeless.

Yes, her theory that love was sudden was most definitely correct.


	9. Positively Perfect

Albus had been fully aware of his own thoroughly improper feelings for the young witch, and still he had not been able to stop himself as she struggled with the proper motions of her wand. As a teacher, it was his first intinct to correct when a student made an error-- as a person, it was his first instinct to grasp her hand without a thought. His entire body had gone rigid when he realized what he had done; it was not unusual, from a professional stand point, but now that he had stood with the front of his orange robes brushes gently against her back, his nose filled with the soft smell of lilacs and honey that seemed to emanate off of her in dizzying waves, and his fingers wrapped around her own pale digits, he hardly thought that he could ever look her in the eye again. Judging by her reaction, she was none too pleased with the whole thing either.

She was probably disgusted-- as a teacher, she probably thought he was bearable, but she had undoubtably been given a serious case of the willies by his proximity to her in that insignificant, yet unbearably pivotal, instant. Albus probably shouldn't have even been making such a big deal out of it, but as he stood before Minerva McGonagall's Transfiguration class, he couldn't help himself but to watch her work.

He was strolling around the room in his usual, languid manner, his blue eyes sparking vividly whenever a student he was passing prevailed, and he murmured a word or two of encouragement or advice before moving on. The problem was, after every word he spoke to one student, his gaze was drawn to another-- the same one every time --and he had to pause and refocus before continuing.

Not only was she driving him absolutely insane with well-deserved guilt and impossible, unrequited affection, but she was now interfering with his work. His brows furrowed as he continued his rounds. Before he could reach Minerva's seat in the back of the room, Dumbledore turned on his heel and made his way to the front of the classroom, folding his arms across his chest as he looked across the small ocean of students, trying to maintain his cheery visage, though his eyes were unintentionally guarded.

"Now, pay attention. Although you all have learned spells specific to certain instances, today we will be going over a word the will be endlessly helpful in future lessons-- both for me and for you." His smile widened to show his joke, and a few Gryffindors added nervous laughs into the mix; Minerva smiled as well, he noted, with some satisfaction, for maybe she was no longer disgusted by him. Pulling his wand from his cloak pocket and rubbing his auburn beard with the other, Dumbledore continued. "You will move your wand like so and say _abeo, _while thinking clearly of your goal. Which, by the way, is to turn the flask of water before you into your drink of choice. And, Mr. Diggle, if I see so much as a drop of Fire Whisky you will find yourself with a fair amount of detention." He sighed and raised his brows.

"You may begin."

The entire class frowned with concentration, and a few students managed to turn the water into a pale, colored subtance of which even Albus was not familiar with. He began to pace the room again, and this time, did not shy away from examining Minerva's progress. Trying not to find the tiny crease between her brows as she concentrated too terribly attractive, Dumbledore watched her flick her wand deftly in the motion he had showed her yesterday. The water immediatly turned, and she smiled slightly, peering up at him through a thin curtain of black hair that had fallen loose from her bun. "How was that, Professor?"

"Perfect," Dumbledore responded with a nod and a twinkle of his eyes as he tried not to think about how alike she was to her spell-casting abilities in the capacity of perfection.


	10. Seven Years of Tension

_**A/N:** Yay! Chapter 10! It should start getting more interesting now, I hope... also, I'm positive the rating will go up eventually... but exactly how far I'm unsure. So I pose the question to you, my amazing reviewers-- what do you want to read? I'm all for illicit classroom bangage, haha, but if that's not what you want, tell me please! I'd also like to note that I rather like this chapter, personally... which is a first, so far as this story goes. _

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"Hardly proper, Miss McGonagall."

She stood there with her mouth agape in an uncharacteristic display of a lack of awareness of her actions, her emerald eyes spitting and sparking with angry fire. A confused and rather annoyed Edgar Bones stood behind the internally fuming Dumbledore, looking sort of remote-- probably the product of snogging Minerva for several minutes before being interrupted, but his distant look was only followed with a shrug, and he turned around, walking in the opposite direction of his common room. This did not go unnoticed by student or Professor, and their thoughts were one and the same: was he so distracted because she was terribly good at kissing, or terribly bad? The thought made Albus hesitate before he spoke again, his blue eyes hazy as he fought away unwanted mental images and tried to discipline Minerva simultaneously. "Detention starting now."

She blinked.

Detention? Detention? Detention!? Minerva had never had a real detention in her seven years of Hogwarts and her entire lifetime of school and preschool in the muggle world. Her eyes bulged but became no less angry as, in a storm of dove grey robes, Albus began towards his classroom. She followed dutifully behind, inwardly ready to explode. Students made out in the hallways all the time-- it wasn't encouraged, obviously, and on occasion the unlucky couple would get a hex thrown their way from the disgruntled bystander, a long tangent from an obviously loveless Filch, or, in the most extreme cases, a chiding from a passing Professor. She had even witnessed Dumbledore reprimanding a rather intimate pair of Hufflepuffs once in his usual, faintly amused way. This was out of bounds. This was extreme for any teacher. But for merry old Albus Dumbledore? This was downright bizarre, not to mention the definitive death of her social life.

They arrived in the familiar classroom and Minerva collapsed into her seat, glaring rather pointedly as the Professor moved slowly towards the head of the room; she got the distinct feeling that he was avoiding her gaze.

"You gave me detention," she said, sounding rather foolishly dumbstruck, though like an undertow her anger swept away incredulity until it was hardly perceptible subtext. Minerva continued to glare with mounting temerity.

"Alas, Miss McGonagall, you left me no choice..." He responded, his voice airy once again. She had sworn she had detected a trace of anger in his tone earlier, but now it was as irritatingly ambiguous as always-- endlessly annoying, that was, and unendingly enthralling. An oxymore that would surely mean the death of her one day. He leaned against his large, oak desk, his eyes lively as they captured her gaze with a tight grasp, and no matter how angry she was she felt the coldness to her gaze melting slowly-- she felt herself, melting slowly... a snowman exposed to the July of Albus Dumbledore.

"Many students slide by without even a deduction of house points. And you give me detention. That's not exactly fair... sir."

"Life, Miss McGonagall, life," Dumbledore said with a wink, and she knew the meaning of his words without even a moment of thought. It was a very him, very cryptic and vague but terribly obvious statement. The kind she had grown used to. The kind she adored. She sighed and looked away from his glacier-meltingly warm gaze, resting her chin in her hand and managing a small frown. She could almost feel his smile widening. She knew it was-- he was like a bloodhound or something. He could smell defeat. She tucked a few fallen tresses of black hair behind her ears and looked at him for a moment, and the words escaped her before she could stop them.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous."

There was a pause so pregnant with promise that it was almost tangible despite the brevity of it. Dumbledore was silent for a split second before smirking and shaking his head, for there really were no words-- truthfully, that was precisely it. But it was such an impertinent comment that he could not rightly respond and maintain the professional boundaries he had set in her fourth year, and so, he didn't. Minerva almost blushed at the childishness of her assumption-- but she caught it before his face had fallen misty and ambiguous. A flash of something in the depths of his vast blue eyes, a spark, kindling. Her heart lurched into her throat even though some part of her knew it was impossible. Dumbledore broke the silence by flicking his wand, and a chess board floated to their usual table. With a flourish of his hand in silent invitation, Minerva accepted, feeling as if her vocal cords were tied in tenacious knots.

Soon they were locked once again in a wordless battle of wits; Minerva too had learned to control the little marble figurines without uttering a sound. Stalemate, she thought, satisfied, until he smiled broadly, flicked his wrist, and her king toppled gracelessly over. Defeated once again. Leaning forwards, Minerva implored her Professor with a gaze.

"How do you do that, every time?" He leaned forwards too in response, as if they were telling secrets not to be overheard.

"Practice, my dear," Dumbledore answered, and Minerva scooted forwards once again. He mimicked her action in an almost perfunctory motion.

"I practice."

Albus chuckled. "Not nearly as much as I have."

Their noses were almost touching now, they were so close, and she held him-- he was as enthralled by the complexity behind her green eyes as she was by the mysteriousness of his --as if tied by a string in an unofficial staring contest. Their breath mixed; lemon drops and lilac, hot chocolate and honey. Sickeningly sweet and almost corporeal, the string that bound them was now revealed to be a thick rope of tension.

"Teach me, then," Minerva whispered, her stomach clenching and her heart beating faster than she thought was possible. The subtext in the conversation, though unintentional, was now obvious, and Minerva's cheeks reddened very slightly. He was her Professor. This was wrong. So very, very wrong. Dumbledore's paradox was nearly ten times her internal imbroglio, for not only did he have self-respect and friendship to lose, but his job, the respect of others, and everything he had worked for during his rather long life. It would be as unforgivable a sin to kiss her than it would be to place her under the Imperious Curse. Sin, however, had never been quite so appealing to him. They sat like that for a rather long time, lips parted, the fraying ends of his ginger beard touching the smooth, milky skin of her face; eyes locked together without fail, fingertips nearly touching across the chess board.

And then Dumbledore stood up and walked out of the classroom, and the spell was broken.


	11. Temper Tantrum

_**A/N:**__ Sorry for the slowness, hehe! And also the shortness of this chapter. I've got relatives in right now, so I'm a tad busy._

Minerva felt her hands shaking, though with a practiced deftness, managed to ignore the fact along with her rising nausea as she stepped into the familiar classroom for the first time since their rather... er, heated chess game. She swept the room quickly with her eyes and found the vibrantly dressed Professor standing and staring blankly out of the window, his gaze unfathomably vast and for a moment she felt as if she didn't know him at all. Before she had arrived at Hogwarts, who had Albus Dumbledore been? She assumed some sort of genius student with an unimaginable amount of accomplishments that would make her own pale in comparison. Yes-- she could see intelligence sparkling like pebbles at the bottom of a puddle deep behind the screen of sky blue. Intelligence and wisdom and enigmatic tendencies-- it was all written so plainly like words from a novel trapped in the pensieve of his gaze. And then the pensieve shattered, and she could almost here the glass glittering on the floor as he turned to look at her. All of the openness to his expression was gone, and his face looked distinctly and uncharacteristically jaded.

She imagined hers looked the same.

She was, once again, ten minutes early for class, and she had intended to smooth things over. But the almost wariness that she sensed about him was so unexpected and so totally bewildering that it was all she could do not to turn and run. Wringing her hands as she sat down, Minerva took a deep breath, noting internally that his guarded eyes had not left her for a second. She wondered if he had seen her in the window's reflection, or if he had just guessed in that annoyingly accurate way of his.

"Professor?" Minerva questioned, her voice surprisingly level, even to her. Dumbledore raised his brows. She continued. "About... sir, what I mean to say is about...I'm sorry, you know, Professor, about..." _About what? My secret love for you? My selective impetuousness? What almost happened? What I'm dying to do right now?_ But before she had to finish what promised to be a disastrous sentence, Dumbledore held up a hand, and she sighed with relief, sure that he understood.

"I know, Miss McGonagall, I know," Dumbledore began with a smile. "You _are_ getting much better at chess. But never be sorry for near success, my dear, for you did have me on the ropes-- so to speak --for a few minutes."

Her jaw dropped.

"Unfortunately, Miss McGonagall, recent commitments render me unable to continue our little get togethers, detention or otherwise. I fear that it will be some time before our next chess game."

Students began to file into the classroom, and Dumbledore returned to his usual, cheery self, though he never once looked her in the eye, and there was a tightness to his face that she had never before witnessed. For the first time since she was eight years old, Minerva McGonagall felt like throwing a temper tantrum.


	12. Cue Mind Reading

_**A/N:** Thank you all once again for the splendid reviews. They are most definitely the reason this story is updated so frequently. So, thank you once again. Also, this chapter is set during the same class that was beginning in the previous chapter, just so you're not confused._

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Minerva felt that she looked rather odd with her mouth hanging so widely open, her eyes so feral with emotions that flowed through her veins in an unbidden torrent. Rolanda Hooch arrived just before she would have been late and took her seat beside Minerva. Rolanda managed to get out her supplies and her books, lean back in the chair, have a breif conversation with a neighboring student as well as check her short, spikey hair in a compact mirror that she transfigurated from her pencil before Dumbledore turned around from looking out of the window once more. She even had to elbow Minerva rather sharply in the stomach and give her a bemused glance in signal to shut her still gaping mouth-- Minerva obliged, blinking and blushing and fuming as she busied herself rummaging about her robes in search of her wand.

"Good day class. I trust you are all well?" Dumbledore questioned, his voice carrying its usual dreamy lilt, though the weather in his eyes seemed bleak. The class muttered muffled responses. "Excellent. Today we will be learning a new motion with our wand. It is as follows." He showed the class the motion and then with a flourish of his hands implored them to do the same.

Still feeling rather shaken and furious, Minerva's first few attempts resulted in some festive sparkage from the end of her wand. Rolanda scooted her chair a few inches away, perplexed by her brilliant friend's sudden inability to flick her wrist. As she continued to struggle rather lamely, an idea formed in her head like a soap bubble, scintillating with possibility. She waited a few more moments until Professor Dumbledore had aided a few other students, and then her hand shot up in the air so quickly it appeared to be but a pale streak of light. He gave her a furtive glance, and she saw his mouth tighten, but as she knew he would he approached her anyways, standing at the corner of her desk.

"Miss McGonagall?" His voice was tight like a bowstring.

"Professor," she began, her tone pitched a little higher than usual. She felt her stomach clench. "I'm having some trouble. Could you help me, sir?" Her smile was then innocent enough, though she could almost feel a rather demonic glint surfacing in her own emerald eyes. It was commonplace for Dumbledore to aid students, obviously, and so nobody but Minerva and Albus himself stirred as he nodded in acquiese and stepped behind her, leaning forwards to grab her wrist none too gently. Realizing his roughness, his willowy fingers immediatly loosened their grip until his flesh was just barely touch hers, though his chest was obliged to press oh-so-gently against her shoulders. Minerva inhaled sharply. He ignored her, though she could feel his own breathing hitch slightly against her cheek as he began to move her wand hand in slow, methodical sweeps. Her arm went limp, and she let him control her completely.

He pulled away eventually, staring at her, and she raised an articulate brow in the second before she realized he must have spoken and was waiting for a response.

"Uh...right, sir." She returned, though as he gave her a withering gaze before moving away she was almost positive that he knew she hadn't heard him. Her anger had dwindled with the softness of his touch, and she was feeling almost euphoric a moment before a voice rang out, loud in clear _within her own head_.

_"Don't do that again, please, Miss McGonagall."_

Her fury returned full force.  
_He could use Legilimency!_


	13. Slip of the Tongue

_**A/N:** Whee! Uh, promise that this will be the last Minerva-pitching-a-fit chapter, hehe. Also, I'd like to note that after spending the past two days with my deeply Pittsburgh relatives, I indeed typed "at" in place of "out." Kudos if you understand, hehe._

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Minerva McGonagall had an explosive temper and a wrath to be feared by all. Once one witnessed her angry self, one usually made extra efforts to avoid witnessing such a sight again. Albus Dumbledore, it seemed, had a knack for bringing out every extreme emotion she had, for once again her unparalleled anger was directed solely at him. For the first time in her entire life, Minerva hardly cared about being late for her next class as her Transfiguration class filed out of the elaborately engraved door, her eyes zeroing in like snipers on the Professor that was standing in the front of the room. He stood, apparently waiting for her, though he most definitely was not prepared for how loud her voice was when she spoke.

"_You are a Legilimens?_" She cried, throwing her hands in the air, her usual composure shattering completely. Dumbledore nodded, and she thought she witnessed the tiniest flick of his wand; no doubt a silencing charm. "Which means, _sir_, that you've had an all access pass to my mind-- not to mention everybody elses!"

"Just _because I_ _can_, Miss McGonagall, has never been an appealing justification so far as I am concerned. I have never--" He tried to explain, but she cut him off as he hand shot to her wand and she raised it. Once again the whole reality that any attempt at hexing him was useless occurred to her, and she stood before him rather tensely, her muscles stiff, her emerald eyes flaming and spitting like the flames of a dragon.

"I'm not quite as pissed off about your invasion of other students' minds, as all you likely got was thoughts of how ruddy boring this class can be, but _my mind_? You got to listen for a year's worth of ridiculous, childish, immature, juvenile day dreams that featured _you_, sir, so you can stuff your sodding _justifications,_ and explain to me how you've refrained from laughing at me when you know exactly what goes on in my head!" Her Scottish brogue was made thick by a mixture of fury and volume, and in a flustered motion Minerva stuffed her wand into her pocket, though had to try and fit it in atleast four times since she was jabbing so hard. Then, returning her irate gaze to his, she stared him down. She looked almost predatory, and Dumbledore momentarily thought of her animagus form, wondering if she had transformed her eyes at the very least, for he could have sworn that her eyes were narrowed almost unnaturally; he also might have bet that she had grown claws.

There was a silence to thick it was almost tangible. Like chess pieces they were set up on opposing ends of the board, the white Queen staring down the stone King at the other end. He was standing against the wall; his movements were limited. She was standing in the center of a classroom filled with objects that would willingly part at her beck and call-- the Queen, like in the game, could make any move. Without any pawns or bishops or knights to protect him, he wasn't so impressive at all. His eyes were alight with sparks of shining beryl that she hadn't seen since the other day, though even as she saw them they were extinguished without a word, and his face tightened. He became a gargoyle of stone, unmoving and unreadable as he folded his arms across his chest, his slender hands folding conservatively. Minerva was just about to summon her second wind and berate the Professor more when he spoke, and suddenly her second wind-- any wind at all had fled her.

"Miss McGonagall, I _didn't_ know what was going on in your head."

She paled. She gasped. She clutched her robes tightly around her and grabbed her books. Wordlessly, she fled.


	14. Slip of the Tongue in a Punny Sense

_**A/N:** As always, thanks for the fabulous reviews. They make my day every time. Unfortunately, I'm going on vacation with the fam for the next week or so... you can expect the next update then. I hope this chapter leaves you with a fair amount of anticipation... -evil smile-_

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Minerva looked forwards to Transfiguration class like the average student looked forwards to N.E.W.T.s. Or getting hit in the head repeatedly with a blunt object. As she thought about it, either option seemed equally apt. She took her time getting there, and once she did she waited outside of the door, chewing on her fingernails and fumbling with her books until most of the students were already inside. Slipping into the room after and almost managing to be late, Minerva slid into her seat in the most unobtrusive way possible, her green eyes fixed with an almost determined concentration on her neatly folded hands.

She hardly heard Dumbledore speak she was paying so little attention. When he made his rounds he didn't so much as bother to even look like he was going to see how she was doing, and she had a feeling that if she raised her hand, he wouldn't even consider calling on her. Just the same.

She wouldn't have answered.

Tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear, Minerva's eyes flicked upwards at the sound of her Professor's voice in an instinctual reaction, and she was surprised to find that his eyes were, in fact, on her. As he spoke, his pale blue eyes followed the path of her fingers as she tucked her hair, and when he realized she was staring back he quickly diverted his attention. Minerva shifted, feeling suddenly self-conscious. For once, she had thought that she was escaping his omnipotent gaze; it seemed, however, that even when he was avoiding her he saw everything she did.

Stifling a shiver at the thought, she opened her text book and began to follow along the line of dark words as Dumbledore read aloud. Soon, though, her eyes drifted like magnets towards her Professor once again, watching his mouth form the words with a certain amount of scrutiny, watching how his eyebrows arched and straightened with different intonations. He caught her gaze, though, and she glanced downwards.

Their little tango went on for the rest of the class-- he stared at her hand as she wrote, she eyed his fingers as they ran across the pages of their textbooks. Minerva had once heard from an presently infatuated Rolanda that fixation on tiny details was a sign of...

_Studying now_, she thought vehemently. She dropped her gaze a final time, appearing to be utterly absorbed in her book, though her stomach was clenching so tightly that she felt as though she might be sick. And from the mutterings of students around her, it was rather possible that Dumbledore looked equally well. She clutched her hands together so tightly that her knuckles turned completely white. Finally, the torturous period ended, and everybody began to file out in a disorderly fashion.

Everybody, that was, except for Minerva.

Almost simultaneous to the final student's departure from the classroom, Minerva got to her feet and walked briskly up to Professor Dumbledore, hardly realizing her actions. And before either had time to think, she had stood on her tip-toes, cupped his face between her hands, and kissed him. 


	15. The Taste of Lies

_**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait, everyone! I haven't been able to sit down and write for a while, and I hate writing chapters bits at a time. Anyways, here it is, and thanks for the amazing reviews. My record was 47 and now I've broken it thanks to ya'll, so... thanks! Also, addressing Beryl: firstly, that's a kick-ass name, ha. And (this may end up in a ramble) I was a thesaurus thumper for a fairly long time-- I don't really think when I'm writing, so I guess it just sort of slipped out when I was typing. It **was** meant to be blueish.  
_

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Not once had she ever thought to herself that she was going to kiss Professor Dumbledore. Minerva hadn't even made a conscious decision to stay after class at all. She had been sitting in her chair and just for a split second she had allowed less than appropriate thoughts to flood her mind-- hardly a coherent thread of thought had passed through her brain before she felt herself moving. And then she was standing there with her hands on either side of his face with her lips against his. Her height compared to his caused her to lurch forwards onto her tip-toes, and for a moment she felt as if she was suspended in both time and space, floating next to him. He was frozen too, completely and totally, turning to stone beneath the gentle touch of her lips. And then things thawed and she was unable to support herself on her toes so fell forward, forcing the Professor against the window and the student against the Professor.

And then things _really_ thawed, and he unfroze and responded. At first it was only a tentative shifting of his body and head so that she no longer had to lean upwards, and then his lips slowly began to move against hers as if whispering secrets into her mouth. Her eyes were wide and green and never left his-- both stared at the other with a mixture of confusion, fear, anxiousness, realization of the problems this could cause, and relief all at once. Muddled as they were, they both knew they needed to break apart-- in one more minute or two, or maybe three or four or right after...

Minerva felt her eyes flutter shut of their own accord though she did take a step backwards so that she was no longer flush against him. They stood like an awkwardly sculpted archway, the pillars their bodies and the contoured top their adjoined mouths, though never anything else did they touch. The kiss was chaste and, so far as Minerva was concerned, dissatisfying. If she was going to hell or going to be expelled or what have you, she was going to do it thoroughly.

Closing the distance she had created Minerva pressed her lips hard against his, separating them with a flick of her tongue-- something Edgar Bones had taught her, proving that that event was not all bad --and then the distant kiss he had been returning exploded into flames. Locked together like puzzle pieces their mouths battled, and she shuddered as he ran his tongue over hers, biting his lower lip gingerly. She kept reaching her hands up to wrap around him or touch him or _something_ to prove to herself that this was real and happening, but every time she moved her wrists he reached down and kept them at bay, as if he felt the same as she did and did not want to know whether it was really occurring or not. Edgar Bones, she quickly found, was a sore second to Albus Dumbledore. His lips were deft and light as fairy wings, just like his physical presence, his entire body pressed tightly against every line of hers, though she felt as if she couldn't quite get close enough. He was elusive even now, and she kept moving forwards until the pressure holding them together was almost painful.

She whimpered in a sound that ended up being more of a mewl than anything, and Albus was once more reminded of her animagi form. And then things cycled from there-- animagi, she was a new animagi. Just learned that very year. He had taught her. She was a student. She was his student. She was kissing-- he was kissing her and it felt too good to be true, which, Albus had found, was normally the case. And so, in what might have been the most anticlimactic moment of his life, he finally raised his hands to her shoulders and gently pulled her away from him. Minerva fought the rebut for a moment, making a sound akin to purring that made his skin prickle and almost cracked his resolve. But eventually they were parted and he was turned away from her, staring out the window for what seemed like miles.

"Professor, I..."

"That was very wrong, Miss McGonagall, and it must never happen again." He stated, his voice devoid of its usual distant bemusement, falling flat as could be into the silent classroom. The sexual tension he had been avoiding for quite some time had finally snapped and imploded, and now even the sound of her voice was hard to bare without some manner of improper thoughts invading his consciousness. He closed his eyes, resting steepled fingers on his forehead in a pensive bow of his head.

"Do you want it to?" She asked, sounding vaguely annoyed. He heard her shifting behind him as she turned away from him as well. Back to back, they both wished to see the other's eyes.

"Of course not, Miss McGonagall," he lied unwaveringly. "It was an error on my part that will not be repeated, and one for which I profusely apologize."

"But you do have feelings for me." It was not a question. It hung in the air like a corporeal being, weighing down on his chest like an anvil and threatening to quash the air from his lungs.

"I don't," he responded softly, looking at her slender figure over his shoulder, the pale skin visible on her neck, the tight, dark bun. He sighed. "Want to."

He saw her nod slightly and gather her things, leaving the classroom without an excuse for being late, and Dumbledore was struck by the sound of the door closing. It resounded in his mind as both a literal and metaphorical action.


	16. Finality

_**A/N:** Sorry for my slowness, yet again, but thanks everybody for your unwavering support! It means the world and gives me the inspiration to continue, as always, even though for the next week my time/energy/brainpower is severely limited. (: Also, in response to Beryl: I absolutely love reviews like this-- don't get me wrong, encouragement makes my day every time, but constructive criticism is more than appreciated. I think I know what you mean. I think that you mean their characterization is sort of flat? Because... I feel similar, if that's it, and I'm trying to remedy it. I'm not used to writing something with an actual plot, haha. But I'm likely way off, because I'm tired beyond all reckoning...  
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Albus Dumbledore sat very quietly at his desk. His back was straight, his arms were folded, and his eyes were focused as if all the attention he could offer was needed on the vividly painted wall before him. In all actuality, his attention probably should have been on the Headmaster who paced before him, musing aloud about what to do with several students who repeatedly got into trouble. But he was too distracted to really _care_ what in Merlin's name happened to Caradoc Dearborn the next time he tried to make something explode or interrupt an important speech. He honestly rather liked Caradoc, and thought that he would end up doing well for himself, once he passed over this rebellious stage. But Albus was too preoccupied trying to justify what had happened in his classroom the other day to comment at all, let alone defend someone against the overzealous Armando Dippet. 

"Albus? Albus?" Armando asked suddenly, waving his hand before Dumbledore's face in a swift, sweeping motion before withdrawing, almost recoiling. Albus raised one brow, saying nothing. "You know, if I wanted to speak to myself, I would have painted a portrait." Armando sighed heavily, leaning against one of the silvery classroom desks as Dumbledore struggled to grab onto the here and now, rather than the then he had been dwelling on.

"That would have taken much too long, Armando," murmured Dumbledore almost patronizingly, his blue eyes flicking upwards to the headmaster's once before falling to the wall again. "You have never been known for your patience."

The pair fell silent, as if Dumbledore's words were a cork plugging Armando's mouth, and the headmaster simply huffed a slightly annoyed sigh. He began to pace the room in an absent tic as he mulled things over -- Albus would have welcomed the reprieve from the headmaster's questions if he had not just a second ago come up with a quick and final solution. The only problem was the explanation. Armando trusted him to an almost reckless extent, and he knew that the headmaster would never guess that he had just shoved his tongue down a student's throat, but there would have to be questions even if they were merely business. Albus followed the pacing Dippet with his eyes, finally leaning back into his chair with a squeak and clearing his throat.

"Have you finally deigned me important enough to pick your mighty thoughts, hm?" Sneered Armando with a small amount of malice, though the bitterness quickly faded to sugar and his smiled softly, an expression that was not returned by the Professor before him. Albus simply shifted his weight, twirling a long tress of auburn hair around his finger over and over and over again until the very tip of his index finger had turned violet.

"I have a dilemma, Armando," Albus murmured finally, breaking the silence he had created, his voice careful and almost precarious as if he were scaling a metaphorical tight rope. Armando had turned his back to Dumbledore, eying a portrait of a pair of young dancers dressed in obscenely floral leotards. Albus waited a moment to be sure that Dippet had no more coy interjections, and then continued. "I need a student of mine removed from my class." At the unexpected request, Armando couldn't help but turn around and fix Dumbledore with a very vexed stare. Not once in his entire history of knowing Albus had he heard him say this -- troublesome kids were never a problem; Albus liked the challenge. Smart kids were welcomed and nurtured, unintelligent students revered him and he tutored them faithfully. Average students found him inspiring; lost students found him a guide. What could possibly have disturbed Albus so much that he would _give up_ on a student?

"Why?" Armando blurted, ineloquently.

"Because said student has cultivated a rather disruptive... affection for me, headmaster, put in simplest terms. It interferes with her learning and my ability to teach." Albus spoke slowly and steadily, his steely eyes never wavering -- Armando simply chuckled faintly, never thinking that Albus was searching the headmaster's eyes for a sign that he saw through his excuse.

"Well, you are quite charming..."

"Armando, please! This is a serious matter," Albus interjected before the folly could continue. The headmaster sobered immediately, not having expected Dumbledore's determination to have the matter dealt with.

"Fine, fine, Albus. If you feel it necessary. Just file the paper work and inform your student and send them to Horace... that ought to teach her to keep her hands to herself..." Came the answer, still light in nature though Armando's mood did not wipe off on Albus. Nodding his thanks, Dumbledore once more withdrew -- all hopes of ever solving the issure of Caradoc Dearborn with Albus' help crushed, Armando bid Dumbledore a brief farewell and departed, determined to scrounge up some lemon pudding before the house elves delivered it to the Great Hall.


	17. To Tame a Wild Beast

_**A/N**: Am I forgiven for the untimely delay now, loves? Two chapters in one night, woohoo! This is by far my favorite chapter, nevermind the brevity -- also, the story is not over. :P  
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"Miss McGonagall, a word?" 

"Certainly, Professor."

He had to admit, she was one hell of an actor. Her face stony and sharp and rigid (and beautiful), she turned to him, gathering her things in her arms without so much as the trembling of her little finger. She had unparalleled composure as she walked to him with all of the regale of a queen, her green eyes blazing emerald that sang so loudly of pain and resignation that he found himself unable to hold her gaze. Albus Dumbledore had always known she could shut off her emotions when she so chose -- he had seen her do it countless times for countless reasons. But no matter how meticulously poised her exterior was, her eyes were always open. His were constantly empty and distant. Hers were constantly present, constantly feeling and probing and wondering even while she tried to detach her brain. He breathed deeply through his nose and tried not to notice the smell of soap on her skin as she stood before his desk, tall and strong -- he could have forgotten that he was in love with her and that this was the most difficult thing he had ever done if she was just able to shut off her eyes. But no. Flames. Verdigris and eternal; he wanted them stifled, but knew he would die a little bit inside if they ever were.

"Professor?" Was that a quaver in her voice? The question brought his eyes upwards, and he found himself once again unable to draw his gaze away from her, silently cursing the siren's call of Minerva McGonagall.

"Oh, yes. I apologize. My mind is getting ahead of me." He paused for a moment, shifting his weight slightly but never removing his eyes from hers. The emotion, the depth, the vastness of her eyes was startling -- he saw small shreds of emerald hurt, tiny flecks of blue-green anger, shards of longing like golden filigree around her pupil, all swallowed by a tiny mist of verdant resignation. She had given up. It wasn't a fight worth winning.

He almost had himself convinced.

"Miss McGonagall, I have filed to have you removed from my class for the remainder of the year." The words came out in a rush compared to his usual dreamy drawl, and he watched her eyes soften just as her face seemed to harden like a shell. How much would it take to crack her?

"Why?" She was challenging him. Her lips were pursed, her teeth were gritted, and he saw her knuckles go white around her text book. Albus had no immediate answer. He sat still and silent, lost in the ocean of her eyes as he tried to find a response that would leave what had happened between them where it was. He had no right to bring it up. He could lie to her. He was a good liar, Albus was... she would be able to hold tightly to the lie, too, like an anchor to reality. But the pull of dreams and fantasies was strong, and the measly anchor of his justifications were hardly a match for a wild torrent of sea water. Albus sighed, falling back in his chair once more.

"Love is a feral thing, Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore murmured finally. He expected some sort of farewell, something bittersweet to make him remember the look on her face forever -- he did not expect her temper to flare or to hear the swish of her cloaks as Minerva turned on her heels and marched towards the door. She paused, her small, pale hand on the handle -- was it trembling? He couldn't tell -- and spoke, though she never looked back.

"Love is a thing that needs to be tamed," she spat, and with that, he watched her go.


	18. Curriculum

_A/N: My oh my. I know it's been more than an age. And I hate to resurrect this story, because it's always possible I'll fall of the face of the earth again. However, I recently got my hands on a netbook, which is awesome, and I highly recommend any of you writers look into it, hehe, but the point of that was it enables me to type anything I want at all times—including enabling me to indulge my soft spot for fanfiction. More than for the wait I apologize if this chapter falls flat due to the rust that has accumulated in my brain and on my knuckles, but hopefully further installments will improve._

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* * *

_She stood behind the Quidditch pitch with her hands shoved into the pockets of her long black coat, a scarf encircling her neck more times than ostensibly seemed possible. The bulk of her clothes made her appear tiny and childish, and Dumbledore couldn't help the swell of frustration he felt as he looked at her. He was often able to lose the concept of her youth in her maturity, and now that he stood directly across from her with but a yard between them, he was painstakingly reminded that when he was her age, Minerva McGonagall hadn't yet been born.  
"Miss McGonagall," he greeted jovially despite his thoughts, his pale eyes sparkling to match the frost winter's bite seemed to drape across the grounds during the winter. He was dressed neutrally in purple as he usually was, refusing to support any house in particular when he came to matches. Minerva nodded to him, her tightly-pressed lips turning blue with chill.

"Professor," she returned her green eyes hard as marbles. They stood like that for several moments, even as the crowd in the stands screamed and yelled, even as the wind picked up and their skin was riddled with goose-bumps. Minerva watched as he cross his hands genteelly before his waist, tilted his head, and twisted his lips in a blithe-half smile. For another moment yet she fancied he'd actually say something, but the silence prevailed until her insides were writhing with uneasiness. "Well," Minerva said awkwardly, forced to shout over the roar of fans as one of the houses scored. "See you." She shrugged, walking towards both him and towards the Gryffindor seating. Minerva unconsciously held her breath as she strode purposefully past him, every muscle in her body uncomfortably clenched with a mixture of anger and agitation. She had just begun to relax, Albus behind her, when she suddenly felt a hand wrap tightly around her bicep. Minerva let out a startled gasp as she turned to find his bright, probing eyes before her and not several feet behind her as she had anticipated, or, rather, hoped.

"How has Professor Slughorn treated you, Miss McGonagall?" Dumbledore inquired with an earnestness that couldn't be doubted, his expression as distant and vaguely friendly as always. Slightly surprised, Minerva stood silent for a moment, her mouth slightly agape before she let out a couple strangled noises that remotely resembled vowel sounds. Dumbledore released his grip on her arm, and that seemed to have a steadying effect on her cognitive processes.

"Well, sir, thank you." Minerva responded dutifully. She hesitated for a moment, tucking a tress of dark hair behind her ear, despite the way her hand shook in the cold. "However, I feel that I am being deprived of opportunities vital to my development as a witch in the absence of your tutelage." She was, of course, referring to the doors being Albus Dumbledore's protégé would have opened. Famous not only in her mind, having him firmly behind her in future endeavors would have instantly garnered respect or at least deference for her wherever she ended up after Hogwarts. Despite the utter innocence in her words, she watched Albus blanch slightly. Concerned, though she was still rather angry at his past cowardice, she uttered, "professor?"

"I apologize, my dear Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore said almost immediately after she had spoken, his face returning to its former state. "I just recalled a very important meeting that I am supposed to be attending. A teacher's dedication knows no bounds, not even the lines of a Quidditch pitch, it seems," he persevered, dipping his head politely and then disappearing in a flurry of purple robes. Minerva was left feeling frustrated as ever, angry as she had been, and now freshly recalling the event that had led up to her removal from his daily schedule. Albus returned swiftly to the castle and closed himself away in his room, a small and cluttered area in the top of one of Hogwarts' ivory towers. He stood at the window and carefully considered the situation.

There were a few things of which he had recently become very certain.

The first was that normalcy between Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall was unattainable. The second was that she hadn't forgiven him. The third was that he hadn't forgiven himself. And the fifth was that he found her very, very, absurdly, improbably, and maybe even dangerously attractive. When she had stated that her journey to becoming a witch required his tutelage, he had known she was speaking purely academically. He knew that she was by no means naïve or wholly inexperienced, but he also knew that she was no vixen, despite the indefinable allure that pulled him constantly towards her. She wouldn't have intentionally incurred such thoughts from him—he hadn't even known that someone could make his mind go to the wholly juvenile place it had today. For when Minerva McGonagall had mentioned the things he could teach her, Albus had instantly thought of all possible things he _could_ teach her. And, he was sure, none of them would be approved as part of the curriculum.


	19. Eyes off of You

_A/N: Still present, and unreasonably happy to find my story's not been forgotten despite my nigh unforgiveable neglect. Thanks ever so much for the reviews -- you must know by now how much I love them! :) I also recall a little while back a review requesting more from Minerva's pov, and I should be accomodating that request soon enough._The Christmas holidays were fast approaching, and as such, students were bustling around the halls with an admirable impatients, giddily relating their plans and fantasizing about their soon-to-be lack of homework with their classmates. The enthusiasm for the season was palpable, and Dumbledore stood in the hallway with his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression schooled into a careful picture of serenity as he nodded to each student as they filed into his classroom. He enjoyed the holiday season immensely, though this year he was looking forward to it for additional reasons. Typically the opportunity to work on something other than grading papers excited him. Usually he looked forward to some solitude. Often he grew excited for the amount of sweets that would be readily available in the days to come. This year, however, the fact that he would be far, far from the student body -- one student body in particular -- cheered him far more than any of his other more trivial happinesses could have ever.

He stroked his beard gingerly as the last few seventh years trickled within, lingering in the hallway for a few extra moments to allow the students some time to conclude their conversations -- the holiday was nigh, after all, and little breaks were necessary to one's sanity. Nodding to himself and turning into his classroom, Albus closed the door carefully behind him as he entered, humming softly under his breath. The students began to quiet as he neared the front of the room accomodatingly; a few excited whispers lingered like background music as he dropped languidly into the chair behind his desk. He smiled to himself then, leaned forwards, placed his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands as he surveyed his pupils slowly. Under his scrutiny, all quieted, made nervous by his lack of action. In reality Dumbledore was planning on giving them a free period to indulge their pre-holiday jitters, but he found it far more amenable to his sense of humor to let them sweat it out for several moments and pray he wasn't about to whip out a pop quiz.

"Today is to be a very trying day for some of you," Albus said finally, canting his head ever-so-slightly. "Others yet may find it simple. I myself find it to be one of the greatest challenges I have ever faced." He paused for dramatic effect as students' eyes widened and they moaned and sighed under their breath, a wave of disquiet passing abruptly over every face in the classroom save for two. "Today, my dear students, your taxing assignment is to relax." He concluded, the word _relax_ passing his lips with an ironic unease as he found the only other unperturbed face amongst the sea of relieved smiles and quiet chortles. Stony and composed as though she wore a mask beneath her skin always, Minerva McGonagall sat dead center in a previously unoccupied seat, her back straight, her shoulders set, and her hands folded neatly in front of her. From a distance she was almost unassuming -- as Albus knew her well as anyone, though, he was quickly able to spot the challenge that glimmered somewhat bitterly beneath the green varnish of her eyes. He felt his mouth go dry as he met her defiant gaze, every intention of sorting out the overwrought cogs of his brilliant mind vanished with her unexpected reappearance in his class. He inclined his head towards her slightly in a half-nod as all of the other students shifted about the classroom, seeking to be nearer to friends or to find something to occupy their time. Even as her peers settled around her, Minerva was summoned to Dumbledore's desk with the slightest flick of the index finger on his outstretched hand.

"Sir?" Inquiered Minerva innocuously, her hands crossing behind her back as she stood before her desk, facing the professor who had, to his surprise, managed to keep his expression mostly impassive, save for the frantic twisting and turning that the blue of his glimmering eyes underwent.

"Miss McGonagall," Albus began, hesitating as he sought the proper words to address her. "What a surprise." He decided upon, leaning forwards on his desk, his eyes scanning across her sharp features beseechingly.

"I hoped the headmaster or Professor Slughorn would have spoken to you." Minerva hedged after a moment. Her eyes moved away from his face, and he almost held his breath, sensing that she didn't plan to be nearly so polite in moments to come. "I spoke to the headmaster. Explained my interest and dedication to Transfiguration, and the detriment to my education removal from your class caused. I assured him that my," she paused, licking her lips uneasily, a motion which Dumbledore followed intently, "'childish infatuation' with you is far gone. And he allowed me to rejoin your class."

"And?"

"And what, sir?"

"And what is it that you're pressing to your cheek right now?" Queried the Professor shrewdly. She had never been one for tongue-in-cheek, and he didn't like it when she seemed to be tucking her words away like ammunition. Minerva reddened slightly; with anger or embarrassment, Dumbledore was unsure. She seemed to falter, her eyes skipping to and fro like a pebble on water before her gaze finally latched definitively to his.

"I suppose I should have inquired as to whether your infatuation had also disippated before returning." The words came out in a blur, a rushed whisper that let him suddenly in on how his actions had effected her. She _had_ been legitimately interested in Transfiguration, and he had deprived her of learning more. And his avoidance of her had only further confused and distorted her emotions. As alluring as he found her, as often as he forgot her age, she was still a _child_ -- he didn't fathom she was mature enough to truly understand the issues any relationship between them would cause. She was young and lovely and brilliant, occasionally spurious and totally near-sighted by default; he had to make sure she was not hurt on account of her naivety. On account of him.

"Curb the impertinence, please, Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore bit back, a little shortly, shelving his instinct, which was to offer her a lemon drop and force her as far away from him as possible, where he couldn't notice the strain in her voice, or the tension in her shoulders, or the small but visible circles beneath her eyes. He was weary of the game they played. Tired of the guilt. Tired of resisting, tired of fighting and hiding and wanting. He needed her to simply fade into the white noise that comprised the rest of the student body, to simply disappear and leave him to himself.

"Consider it curbed." She returned, startled, after a moment. Albus nodded, peering down at the papers before him as though he would begin working, though in actuality he hadn't had anything to do. "Sir?" She murmered, her voice taken down several notches from the haughty anger that had colored it moments ago. His eyes found hers once again, softer this time, lulled by everything that encompassed her once more. "I've fallen behind. If I stay after today, will you help me?"

"Of course." Dumbledore affirmed with a small nod, and they shared a small smile for a half of a second before she returned to her desk in a flurry of robes. He wished more than anything that the prospect of spending alone time with her didn't incite all kinds of inappropriate reactions. He wished that he hadn't missed seeing her on a daily basis as much as he had. He wished he could expell her from his class once more. But, of course, he couldn't. Most of all, though, he wished that he could take his eyes off of her.

Since his wishes went vastly unasnwered, he spent the remainder of the period transfixed by her as she spoke to the girl next to her. He watched the subtlety with which she moved, spoke; the brilliance of her smile, the music of her laugh. He watched her too unabashadly, and of course she noticed.

Every time her eyes met his and he saw the little crook to the corner of her mouth, he wished more than he had wished even a moment before that _she_ could take her eyes off of _him_.


	20. We Were Just Talking

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews yet again. :)_

Minerva waited after class as she had promised. She reorganized all of her papers, waiting for the students to trickle slowly out -- it was the last period of the day, and everybody was too worn down to make any pronounced effort to hurry from one location to the next. Speaking to him with other students around had made her feel awkward, harried, totally uneasy in his presence and so off balance that, in retrospect, she had been fairly hostile. Usually the extent of their in class relations was for her to raise her hand, and subsequently string off an answer. When they were alone, despite the questionable state of their relationship, it was almost as if she could pretend all of the obstacles that created the awkwardness between them didn't exist. As if he could slip off the title of teacher and she could cease to be his student. With others in the room, though, she had felt as though anything she said would be overheard, as if their every action was being watched, and she had been ever-so-bitterly reminded that the distance between them was not only due to her previous absence in his class, in his life, but also due to such immutable things that she couldn't ever change -- in that setting, he had been, definitively, beyond the shadow of a doubt, her teacher. Unreachable and superior. And it had irked her more than she could ever have put into words.

After she had returned to her desk, he hadn't taken his eyes off of her. Out of residual anger -- for he had clearly been irritated by her behavior -- or something else she couldn't begin to fathom. His expression had been unreadable. But his eyes had lingered on her for the entirety of the period, and she had returned the favor in kind whenever she had been able to without, she felt, making it too obvious to Poppy Pomfrey, whom she had been chatting with at the time. The exchange had left her feeling further frustrated and confused, and had instilled in her a steely resolve to speak to him about everything. She needed to know, once and for all, what, if anything, was going on or going to happen lest she absolutely lose her mind. Which, she thought wryly, wasn't an impossibility even if they did clear things up.

When she felt they were suffeciently alone, she peered up from her fumblings to find him staring directly at her with one brow raised, a small smile on his face. Blushing a little, Minerva stood from her desk and walked towards him, stopping a few feet from him, his desk between them, as she tried to decide what to say.

"I assume you have not actually stayed after to catch up, as you said," Dumbledore said in lieu of her silence. "For I'm pretty positive, my dear, that you were caught up in seventh year Transfiguration two years ago."

"I wanted to talk." She said abruptly, the words tacked onto the end of his sentence as she tried to find the will or the courage to confront him -- she couldn't decide if it was better to just leave things be. To just stop speaking to him unless necessary, to cease seeking extra help. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she couldn't do it.

"Oh?" Replied Albus, his tone edging on uneasy as his eyes met hers. "What ever about?"

"About... us, sir, and..." she trailed off, gesticulating vaguely and hoping he wouldn't, though she expected he would, play coy or confused or act as though he hadn't the slightest what she was speaking of. Dumbledore didn't respond right away, though his face clouded instantly with seriousness. Minerva wrung her hands. He stood then and approached her, pausing before his desk and leaning against it with his arms folded across his chest. He lifted on hand and made a broad gesture, and a sound like a bottle being corked echoed loudly through the classroom. She peered at him uneasily.

"Silencing spell," he said quietly in answer to her confused expression.

"Can you do that? In Hogwarts, I mean."

"_I_, being me, can do mostly anything I please," he responded flippantly. His wording caused her to raise her brows, and before the question had passed her lips, he frowned and shook his head. "But not what you ask of me." He added, his voice soft, strained, more raw and more real than she had ever really heard it. Usually he sounded as though he was speaking from a distance. Now, for the first time, she felt as though if she reached out to touch him, he would actually be there.

"I haven't asked anything of you, sir."

"Not so explicitly, but I assume you are not here to converse about our astrological signs," Dumbledore returned, raising a brow. "If you are, though, pardon my blush." He added, receiving a small smile from her in response. Standing a yard apart and facing one another, they both appeared to be near ghosts of themselves, gaunt and weary with self-denial and -deprecation. They had created a tangled spider's web of emotion and hurt and confusion, and neither was sure they could maintain their footing along the slender spokes for much longer. "I had you removed from my class for selfish reasons, Miss McGonagall. I have proven myself to be quite incapable of distancing myself from you mentally, or emotionally, and so I hoped physically would do. But, I now find, my precautions have done little to remove... to..." He trailed off, Minerva hanging precariously on his words, praying, hoping, wishing for some honesty, some frankness, for she was jaded of beating around the bush. After several moments during which he stared at his feet quite determinedly, Dumbledore's gaze found hers, and his expression was shrewd.

"I am now, despite having banished you from both my mind and my world, no less enamored of you than I previously was."

Minerva's breath caught in her throat.

"Which is a very dire problem, and a solution must be found immediately." Internally, he noted that if one was not found soon, _now_, it was probable that he would lose that thread of sanity others assumed he had.

"Why?" Minerva inquired after a beat, her voice very small.

"Sorry?"

"Why does it have to be a problem? I'm not a child, anymore, sir. I'm at the very least a technical adult. I understand the havoc any relationship between us could wreak upon your reputation, but it wouldn't bother anybody if we didn't _tell_ anybody." She paused, looked away from him. "I'm not... pursuing you," she paused again, her nose wrinkling with distaste for the turn of phrase, "because you're my teacher or because you're famous. I don't need anybody to know, and you don't want anybody to know."

"Why, then, my dear," Dumbledore interceded, his mind stuck on a singular thing she had said, "are you 'pursuing' me?"

"Because it feels right." She stated almost instantly. She had no further justification, and she didn't want to elaborate uselessly on the point. She didn't want to sound like some love-struck school girl, for that was exactly what she was trying to prove she wasn't. It was simply that she felt comfortable around him, as though she could tell him anything and he wouldn't think the less of her. He had been around forever, a rock for her to cling to in any time of need. He could make her laugh or smile more easily than anyone else she knew. His eyes made her unreasonably unsteady on her legs. His intelligence both intimidated, impressed, and satisfied her. She could converse academically with him without fear of being labelled a dork or a nerd. He appreciated her own intelligence where most others either scoffed or disparaged. He had lived through her temper without calling her any foul name and disowning her there and then. And then, of course, there was the fact that every time he came near her, her stomach became an acrobat, and her heart pattered unreasonably quick in her chest.

"I disagree," he responded, and her face instantly fell, her jaw slackening, her eyes dropping, her stomach plummeting. "It feels incredibly, undeniably, irrevocably wrong. And yet," he added, and she looked up to find him moving slowly, faltering towards her until his fingers brushed softly against her cheek bone. Her breath hitched. "The feeling I had, anticipating you would tell me that your feelings had actually vanished, was sickeningly unpleasant." His hand moved down to trace her jaw line and rested beneath her chin, forcing her eyes gingerly to meet his. "I implore you," he hedged, his voice quiet and strained, "to leave immediately."

"Why, sir?" She managed, her own timbre a croak hardly recognizable for her own voice. She ached for him to come closer, his breath tantalizingly near her lips.

"Because I am so very weary, my dear, and I cannot promise you that the self-control I have typically displayed is with me today." His hand loosened against her, and she saw in his face that he actually wanted her to leave. He really, truly wished she would turn and go, but she found that she had to disappoint him, for her legs were incredibly unstable and his eyes had ensnared her completely.

She leaned a little closer to him, and still he stayed motionless, still he seemed to hold out hope that she would leave him. After a moment, though, their breath mixing, their lips fractionally apart, his hand cupped her chin once more and he inched forward further, his top lip just barely touching hers. She hesitated, feeding off of his uncertainty, for but a second before she sought to close the distance between them, molding her mouth firmly to his. Her lips parted too quickly, unable to hide her eagerness, as he leaned responsively into her, and soon Dumbledore too began to let the wall he had so carefully built between them crumble. He pulled her face as close to his as he could, his tongue infiltrating her mouth as soon as she made it available, his lips moving solidly against hers. They were so desperate to be near one another after so much time apart that the kiss was made clumsy very quickly, their lips growing sloppy in their need for one another; tongues missed and met with skin, teeth scratched against lips, clattered against eachother. She bit his lip and his fingers squeezed too tightly her face. Soon they were breathless and trembling, and had his arm not reached around her to hold her up, she probably would have fallen to the floor. They pulled apart for air, but never more than three inches did their faces part.

He searched her eyes for rebut but found none. Painfully he couldn't decide between joy and anger and disappointment, and so he settled for placing another kiss at the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted expectantly, but he moved to kiss behind her ear, his lips making a slow path down her jaw to her chin and then down her neck. She gasped quietly, swallowing and squirming as he placed a final kiss in the hollow between her collarbones. Her entire body burned with hopeful expectation, and she ached for him to hold her more tightly, to touch her more completely. He, on the other hand, was only summoning the strength to pull away, to push her out of his door, but for some reason Minerva McGonagall was the one and only thing he was found unable to deprive himself of. The power he so needed, he could refuse. Unecessary chocolate, he could do away with. But the feel of her skin and the ecstacy of her breath against him, or the feeling of her body against his as her breathing stuttered, he couldn't imagine living anymore without.

Minerva pressed lightly against his chest, forcing him backwards so that she was on top of him as he descended onto the top of his desk. Her eyes were dark as he had ever seen them as she pressed her lips to his again, turning the tables and forcing his mouth immediately open even as his conscience begged him to stop her. Papers crinkled beneath his back and a pen rolled off onto the floor as they maneuvered directly on top of the desk, her body resting on his, her hands on either side of his face as she had her way with his mouth, the somewhat timid, accomodating approach she had previously taken thrown entirely out the window. He felt his fingers brush against the button at the top of her robes, felt them fasten determinedly around it. She rubbed herself against him like the cat she could alternately be, seemingly giving her assent -- he could not, however, bring himself to do it, despite the burning, tingling, hungry sensations she sent all through his body with every movement. Instead he moved his other hand down to rest gently on her calf -- as her lips moved away from his mouth and approached his ear, his eyes practically rolled back in his head and every shred of sense that had been keeping him from doing anything vastly regrettable slowly fell away, and his hand slowly climbed from her calf to her bent knee to the back of her thigh as she bit at his ear lobe, her tongue tracing the skin around it, her lips pressing to the artery behind. His hand splayed and ventured further, forcing her robes indelicately up until there were only several inches between his hand and the bit of herself that Minerva most ached for him to touch. She moved from his ear -- much to his relief, or chagrin, he wasn't sure -- back to his lips as her hand moved from its position on his chest, down, down, down, and before she had even reached her goal she felt him stiffen against her, a low moan moving from his mouth to hers.

Things progressed too quickly for him to stop or moniter them, and she could think of nothing but the feeling of his hand, his fingers resting at the edge of her underwear. So caught up in one another, in the moment, in the feelings that so wholly encompassed them, that it took several moments for the slam of the door and the pitter-patter of footsteps to settle in.

"Did you..." Minerva murmered, panted, trailing off as his lips moved from her mouth so that she could speak and found her ear in subtle but delicious pay back. "Lock the..."

And then they both seemed to realize, and Minerva bolted up, flew off of him and straightened her cloaks as swiftly as she could, her face turning instantly crimson as Dumbledore peered around once and followed in suit, rubbing his face in a bewildered manner as he looked into the dumbstruck face of Armando Dippet.


	21. No, Really

_A/N: Holy cow, guys, what a response! I'm super grateful for all of the reviews. I'm glad everybody, er, _enjoyed_ the most recent chapter, and even more happy that people other than myself appreciate the slow build. I hate sudden relationships, and I adore writing/reading tension, hence... this. Also, I'm sorry for leavin' ya'll hanging for so very long. School has started once again, and European History is apparently code for three hours of homework per night. WHICH ROCKS. If rocks is synonomous to sucks incredibly much. Thus chapters will probably take a little longer and be a little shorter, but hopefully not much._

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN?!" Spluttered Dippet, his hand slapping loudly against his forehead in a gesture that communicated his absolute inability to process the scene that he had interrupted. Albus Dumbledore stood at the head of his classroom, flustered and red-faced despite the poise he, impossibly, managed to maintain. His hair was mussed and his robes were crooked, and even from a distance Dippet could spot at least one reddish blemish along his throat, telling him that he had not arrived nearly fast enough. Minerva McGonagall looked even less like herself -- hair in a wavy disarray around her shoulders, she fussed with her robes, making sure that every inch of her was covered (for surely it hadn't been a moment ago) as she bit her lips and peered at her feet, the picture of insecure confusion as she folded her arms tightly around her chest. Armando could do nothing but stare for several moments, trying desperately to make sense of the past few moments, cringing each time he noticed something new about either of the pair; for example, Miss McGonagall's lips were marginally swollen, as was, he denoted with growing horror and nausea, a particular area of the offending professor.

"Miss McGonagall, would you be so kind as to return to your dormitory? I believe the headmaster and I have some things to discuss," Dumbledore murmered, his voice level and measured, surprisingly calm to begin and floating into its normal cadence towards the end of his words as the red of his face faded. Miss McGonagall shifted her weight and nodded. She looked as though she had something to say, but decided against it, and after taking a few deliberately slow steps away from her professor, she practically sprinted out the door. Armando was unsure if he wanted her there or not, but he decided it would be much easier to address the situation with only Dumbledore present -- leastways he wouldn't have to restrain his language. As Albus straightened and smoothed his robes, the picture of collected regality, Armando abruptly reconsidered: with Minerva present, it was possible the any temper Albus would potentially display may have been stifled.

"Albus," Dippet began, shaking his head, his hands sprawling upward in a gesture of helplessness, "what were you thinking?"

"Nothing surpassingly intelligent." Albus responded, his face blank as he moved to lean against his desk.

"Evidently." Armando returned sharply, his bewilderment melting into anger. "She is a _student_, Albus, and you a teacher. Her mentor, no less, someone she has long respected. Not to mention the century that divides you in age. You took advantage of her," he paused, licking his lips, his hands moving wildly to punctuate his every word with irateness, "of her veneration."

"Frankly, headmaster," Albus cut in after a moment, a muscle in his bearded cheek twitching, a subtle indication to his growing impatience witht eh subject, "she took advantage of me." The words tasted a lie on his tongue, but Albus hadn't yet reached a plausible route out of the situation. He needed to further gage Armando's perspective, his mood, his thoughts before he concoct the best strategy to salvage the hopeless situation.

Armando scoffed.

"It makes no difference who kissed who or what have you." Dippet responded with a pronounced frown at having to speak of such things with a staff member he had expected to be so little trouble, who half the wizarding world admired and respected. "You are her professor, and thus responsible for her. She is a _child_, Albus. Her decisions are frivolous and ill-informed at best. It is your decisions that concern me," he continued with a frown, as Dumbledore's gaze darkened. "It is _your_ decisions that are the issue, not those of a _seventeen-year-old girl_."

"_She is no child_," Albus boomed after a beat, startling Dippet into silence even as further reproof welled within him. The anger that had appeared so suddenly in him vanished almost at once, and he was passive and ostensibly calm once again as he stood before he headmaster, running a hand along his weary face. "What is to be done about my decisions, then, headmaster?"

Armando stared at Dumbledore for several moments, tilting his head slightly to the side. He had known Albus Dumbledore since he had first entered Hogwarts, and had never particularly cared for him, despite the almost universal fondness everybody else he encountered held towards him. Albus had, of course, been bright and flawlessly well-mannered, adored by teachers for his intelligence yet liked by students despite. At first Armando had fallen under his charming spell -- after his first one-on-one conversation with eleven-year-old Albus, about advanced placement in some of his classes, he had quickly come to rather dislike Albus Dumbledore. Though well-mannered, Albus had managed to make his disdain for Dippet -- then Deputy Headmaster -- known very quickly. At the age of eleven, Albus had fancied himself more intelligent than the headmaster-to-be, and his words had bordered on impertinence, but never did he cross the line enough to be punished. Even as Dumbledore aged, his sense of superiority had never vanished, nor had Albus made any attempt to hide it. To the date, Dippet couldn't decide if he was the only one Dumbledore's condescension was unleashed upon, or if he was the only one to notice it. Regardless, the point was this: whilst unfond of Albus Dumbledore and unconvinced of his flawless moral character, Dippet was nonetheless shocked by his behavior.

But because of the lack of respect Albus had for him, Armando was pretty sure any punishment would fix very little. He of course wouldn't be fired -- not yet, anyway. Though eccentric, Dumbledore was the best transfiguration professor to ever work at Hogwarts, and his fame aided Hogwarts' reputation. To dismiss him would be foolish. Petty punishment would no doubt be scoffed at. The only thing, Armando thought, that may stop him is his own guilt.

"Your relationship with Miss McGonagall will cease. Immediately. Your contact with her will be limited to class. If I hear even a peep about the two of you alone anywhere, you will find yourself out of the job."

"I will respect your wishes."

"Come off it, Albus. You haven't respected my _anything_ since you were eleven. You will do, as always, whatever you want to do, and you're well aware that I can't stop you. However, if you deem it right to continue this... sordid relationship, I _will_ fire you immediately. And however little respect you have for me, good god man, have some respect for yourself." Dippet concluded, his eyes darting across Albus' face. He took a few steps one direction, then shifted his weight back the other; he seemed unsure of what to do. And, much to his chagrin, when he looked back at Dumbledore, Albus was gesturing plaintively towards the door, as though Armando were _intruding_ upon him, as though it were his school, and not Dippet's.

Despite the fact that it was Dippet's school, Armando acqueisced, and left Dumbledore to the staccatto echo of his angry step as he turned out the door.


	22. Min's the Word

_A/N: Well, I'm glad people liked the characterization, and I feel the need to offer a further explanation for it (namely what I've done with Dippet) at the end of this chapter. Thanks for the reviews -- cheers!_

Minerva moved through the halls as quickly as she could without running -- running, she deduced, would attract too much attention. Already she felt eyes straying curiously towards her, the ever-composed Minerva McGonagall with her hair out of its bun and her eyes wide, out of breath and still carrying the look of a deer in the headlights. Closer examination revealed more discrepancies, such as the way her cloaks rested crookedly on her body, or the looseness of her tie, or the red that lingered on her lips, leaving any truly observant passerby no doubt to what she had been doing. Luckily, she hadn't encountered anybody until she was well out of the way of Dumbledore's office, so she was fairly sure that nobody would connect the dots so explicitly -- however, what others must have been thinking made her head spin continuously until she rested her arm heavily beside the portrait of the fat lady, pausing until she had caught her breath as the fat lady hummed impatiently.

After a moment, Minerva irritably uttered the password and slipped inside. She stood in the center of the common room for a moment, her hands at her sides as she tried to decide what to do. Homework was the thought at the forefront on her mind, but she was far too unfocused to work. The mortification of Dippet's interruption made her feel ill, and the situation which both she and Dumbledore were now in caused her heart to pound continuously against her chest -- on the tails of that thought was a near swoon, for it occurred to her that perhaps Dumbledore himself was the cause to the spike in her heartbeat.

"Somethin' wrong?" Came a voice from the other side of the plush red couch, and Minerva started pronouncedly. A shock of dark hair popped up, followed by a familiarly tan face of Aurora Sinistra as she slung one arm over the back of her seat, eyeing Minerva with one brow raised, her bangs falling across her left eye. "What I meant to say was: what happened to you, you look like shit?" She corrected after further assessing Minerva.

"Nothing. I have to… go to bed or something," Minerva responded, her voice out of focus as she rubbed her shoulder, offered a wan smile, and tried to slip alone up to her dormitory. However, as Aurora was one of Minerva's better friends, her attempt was unsuccessful. Leaving her book on the table, Aurora followed close on Minerva's heels, her concerned expression deepening as they ascended.

"It's, like, five o' clock, Min," Aurora hedged uneasily as they came onto the landing, staying with Minerva as she made her way to the prefect's quarters.

"Six thirty." Countered Minerva, glancing briefly at her watch as she stuck her key in the door.

"Whatever. I haven't gone to bed at six thirty since I was four. Bet you haven't either."

Minerva rolled her eyes, opened the door, and whirled around to try to shut it in her friend's face. Aurora, however, was way ahead of her, and had jammed her shoulder against the wooden edifice. The result was a peculiar game of tug-of-war as Minerva pushed with both hands against the door and Aurora forced it open with her right shoulder. Eventually, impatient, anxious, and altogether a mess, Minerva let out a howl of frustration and let her friend, stumbling in.

"So what's up?" Aurora persevered, tip-toeing over to seat herself on the edge of Minerva's bed, her blue eyes narrowed and fixed on Minerva as she slammed the door behind her, only to begin pacing uneasily side to side.

The girl prefect's room was smallish, but nicely furnished, with dark, ornate wooden pieces fitted cozily against the warm, crimson walls; the carpeting was plush and beige, and pictures denoting past prefects -- only ones of particular merit -- decorated the walls. Besides the décor allotted by Hogwarts, the room was somewhat Spartan in construction -- few knick-knacks spoke of its current inhabitant, with the exception of a large stack of books centered on her desk, and a skirt tossed haphazardly across the back of the chair.

"I did something wrong," Minerva admitted after a moment, slapping her hand to her forehead, her fingers rifling through her long, dark hair as she avoided her friend's eyes. She certainly couldn't tell her, could she?

"No!" Cried Aurora facetiously, and Minerva shot her a glare, causing her to sober immediately. "It couldn't have been that bad…" she murmured, somewhat apologetically, her words met with a harsh bark of laughter.

"I don't know what to do," Minerva continued, more musing to herself than explaining to her friend. She felt her throat constrict with near panic. "I hadn't planned on… well, none of this was ever planned… but I didn't expect him to… you know! And the headmaster!" She exclaimed, her eyes wide as she pulled out the chair to her desk and flopped inelegantly onto it, the skirt toppling to the ground behind her as she felt herself edging on hysterics.

"Calm down!" Aurora said in response, getting up and walking over to kneel down in front of her, reaching one hand out to pat Minerva's knee as she sought to meet her friend's elusive gaze. "Cool it, okay? Just tell me exactly what happened, and we'll…" Aurora trailed off, her eyes narrowing slightly as she peered not at Minerva's face, but at a tendril of hair that covered… "MINERVA MCGONAGALL, IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?" She shouted suddenly, reaching up to pull Minerva's hair away from her neck. Minerva cried for her to quiet down, swiftly recovering her hair and hiding the offending hickey as she rose to her feet and started pacing again. "Who in the hell gave you that?"

"Promise not to tell?"

"Well, yeah." 

"Seriously. Not a soul. Not even a stray thought about what I'm about to say after you leave this room."

"Cross my heart."

"Even if --"

"Out with it already, Min!"

"I… can't." Minerva said after a pause, rubbing the back of her neck. Aurora was quiet as Minerva pulled a hair tie from the drawer of her desk, flipped her head over, and wrapped it into a somewhat sloppy bun. With it off of her neck, Minerva felt a greater sense of calm, of control, and of normalcy. "The headmaster interrupted." She allowed after a moment, biting her lip.

"No way! Interrupted what, exactly?"

"Let's just say that every time I see him from now on, my face will be forty-two shades of red." Minerva responded with the ghost of a smile flashing briefly across her features. Aurora practically drooled for more information.

"And who else's face will be a similar shade?"

"Not a word?"

"It's not like you're dating some low-life Slytherin, Minerva. Just tell me."

Minerva withheld.

"What house is he in, at least?"

"Gryffindor," Minerva responded hesitantly, shifting her weight. Aurora's eyes narrowed.

"You're lying."

"Not… exactly. I," she trailed off suddenly. She was absolutely dying to tell Aurora the truth. Though she didn't feel at all ashamed of her relationship with Dumbledore (if it was even a relationship), it would be hard to explain at best. And there was no guarantee that Aurora would understand. There was no guarantee she wouldn't tell. So much was riding on the fact that what had transpired between she and the Professor remained between she and the Professor (and now the headmaster) that it hardly seemed worth it.

But Aurora was her friend. Her best friend. And the urge to tell somebody was simply _killing_ her.

"Promise that you won't --"

"I ALREADY DID."

"Okay," Minerva agreed, wringing her pale, thin hands as Aurora leaned forwards curiously. "What I was _going_ to say was 'promise you won't flip out'. Because I'm not exactly dating anyone. Dating isn't quite the right word, because he doesn't have a lot of time to date."

"Takes a ton of classes like your brainy self?"

Minerva took a deep, steadying breath, moving back to lean against the wall for support as she whispered:

"More like… teaches them."

_A/N x2: The reason I made Dippet behave/feel the way he did towards Albus is very simple, but I wanted to offer my take on things for anyone who didn't like it or was confused. I didn't intend their mutual dislike to be anything close to hatred. It's not even anything personal. But if Dippet is the Headmaster, in charge of the school, instinct dictates that he's the head of everything by merit of his abilities. However, Albus' abilities dwarf his, which creates a discrepancy between logic and human nature. Logically, Dippet knows that Albus will wait until he resigns to take the position. Instinctively, he's threatened by Dumbledore's power and thus averse to his presence, and subsequently more sensitive to Dumbledore's mannerisms than any other._

_Dumbledore's reason is simple: he _is_ superior to Dippet. He isn't modest, though he doesn't brag, and the result is a sort of contained disdain, which -- as I said -- Armando picks up on due to his hypersensitivity to Dumbledore's behavior towards him._


	23. White Elephants

"Bollocks," Aurora responded slowly, opening her mouth to try and pry the actual truth out -- she clamped her lips together instantly at the expression on Minerva's face.

"Please don't make me try to convince you." Minerva responded, her expression stern, though her discomfort shone through the slight, nervous twist of her lips, and her frustration had been etched plainly into her eyes since she had first returned to the common room that night. Aurora eyed her carefully for several moments before she nodded subtly, tilting her head.

"Okay," she said finally, trying to wrap her mind around the idea. "Say I believe you. It's Dumbledore, right?"

Minerva gaped.

"Oh, come _on_, Min. We've all known you have a thing for him since we were twelve."

"How?"

"You drool. A lot. Less so now, but when we were younger, you were pretty well convinced that the sun shone out of his--"

"I get it." Minerva interrupted shortly, crossing her arms high on her chest as though she would hold the ebbing panic inside of her.

"I never would have thought he was the pervy type, though…"

"Excuse me?"

"Well," Aurora said, back-stepping a little as she caught the thinly veiled irritation in her friend's eyes, "he's what, fifty?"

"Forty-seven," Minerva countered, already building up a defense as Aurora continued.

"Either way, he could be your grandfather."

"My grandfather would be sixty-eight," Minerva responded after a pause, her voice so icy that Aurora was stopped dead in her tracks. Quickly, she remembered how prickly Minerva typically became when interrogated about her family. Usually people didn't ask, though. It was a well-known fact that Minerva McGonagall's second year had been, in addition to intermittent, rather tragic so far as family went.

"I guess I just don't get it." Aurora said after several moments, shrugging her thin shoulders.

"There's not much to get. He's not my grandfather. He's been there, always, willing to help me and support me. He's the only one who knows what I'm talking about when I get into --"

"-- 'study mode'," the girls chimed together, eliciting a small smile from both before Minerva continued.

"He knows more about muggle literature than I do. More about _magical_ literature than I do. He's the only person who can challenge me at chess. He makes me smile. Laugh. Feel good and happy and natural, y'know? I don't have to pretend that I'm not as smart as I am or that I'm especially nice or talk about any of the vapid little dramas that go around." She paused, her back against the wall as she slowly slid down it to fold herself onto the ground, her arms wrapping around her knees. "He's in my world, yet removed." That was vital, though she couldn't have recounted why. Aurora looked a little dumbstruck, however Minerva wasn't quite finished. "And his eyes…" she trailed off, her cheeks turning a little red as she waited for judgement, staving off the flow of words; pontification on the point of Albus Dumbledore would never, ever be a challenge to her.

"Wow," Aurora said, leaning forwards on her chair to stare at Minerva. "So," she continued, moving into a more conversational tone while still trying to swallow the information her best friend had just relayed, "are you guys, like a couple?"

Minerva shrugged.

"Well obviously you don't date. So I have to ask, what _do_ you do?"

"Ask the headmaster," Minerva returned bleakly, paling once more.

"If I didn't love you so much," Aurora responded, standing to approach her before bending down to sit shoulder to shoulder with her friend, who stared blankly in front of her, trying to come up with some infallible stratagem that would relieve the pressure she felt crushing her chest and pressing against her temples. "This would be _the_ juiciest dish in history. Albus Dumbledore and the shocking story of the student who--"

"--fell for him," Minerva supplied gingerly, swallowing hard as the words passed her lips. Aurora's eyes darted sharply to her friend's face.

"Wow," Aurora said, repeating what she had stated earlier. The weight of Minerva's words seemed a tangible thing, entered now into the universe, an addition to the compression she felt from all sides, crushing and contorting her until she felt ill once again. For all she really knew, he was just a perverse old man. All of the ethical issues that had previously been abstracts now swam around in her mind, all of the possible consequences for her impetuousness, her one-time inability to balance her emotions with her pervasive logic threatened to drown her.

"Wow." Minerva agreed, banging her head against the wall as she leaned back, closing her green eyes to the world and remaining motionless as Aurora prattled uselessly beside her, trying to console. In the end, she realized that she wasn't doing much, and left Minerva behind the closed door of her room.

When Minerva finally opened her dry eyes, an owl sat perched on the window sill with a small parcel in its beak. She stood quickly and let the bird in, removed the letter, and shooed it abruptly out, recognizing the slanting script even through the thin paper as she scrambled to open it.

_Please cease your worrying._ Was the first thing on the paper, right at the top, bringing a small smile to her lips for how well he knew her. _In regards to other things, it seems that a cat has been wandering around the grounds near the path to Hogsmeade for the past few nights. It has some of the staff quite upset, and thus I have volunteered to see to it that the stray finds a home, or else wise finds a new haunt. I am informing you of this because it means that our planned tutoring session this night is postponed, if not cancelled, until further notice._

It was unsigned, unaddressed, and seemingly random and vague in content. Though she knew it without a doubt to be from Dumbledore, she couldn't understand why he would go through all the trouble of coding a message and not even address it -- however, it briefly occurred to her that perhaps, after the incident, in order to eliminate any undesirable correspondence between herself and Dumbledore, their names and other words had been jinxed to set off an alarm, such as the case had been when students were suspected of engaging in inappropriately placed trysts, and any illicit language or letters mentioning a meeting place were looked over… for the students' own good, of course.

She fell onto her bed, curling into a ball and rereading the letter a few more times before she felt sure that she had ascertained its meaning. The cat, of course, was Minerva herself -- she had not yet registered as an animagus, as the transformation was still unreliable. The location was clear, as was the approximate time.

The only question, it seemed, was what he wanted.


	24. The Man with Enormous Wings

_A/N: First and foremost, I'm sorry about the last chapter, though thanks for the pleasant review, Tasha! Exposition is boring but semi-necessary, and so nothing really happened… additionally, it was SUPER rushed, because I wanted desperately to get something up, but didn't have enough time for it to be something decent. This should, ideally, be better._

The sky was bright despite the hour, an array of clouds spread across the dark sky, facilitating the bleeding moonlight and lightening the ground in dappled patterns. Albus Dumbledore stood, hunched slightly against the cold but regal despite, with his back against the trunk of a tree, adjacent to the path that led to Hogsmeade. He had many a reason to be there, so far as anybody was concerned -- his brother lived and worked not far off, he could want to visit Hogsmeade for other reasons, or he could simply want time to himself. Either way, Albus was fairly certain he wouldn't be questioned by anybody about the lateness of the hour -- most of his colleagues thought him peculiar, anyway.

However, he wasn't out near midnight for recreational reasons.

Within a few moments, his bespectacled eyes turned to a slender tomcat that prostrated itself before him, two circles reminiscent of glasses encircling the harsh, emerald glow of its gaze. Dumbledore inclined his head slightly towards the creature, and in a minute but noticeable gesture, flicked his wrist; to a spectator, both Dumbledore and the cat would have appeared to vanish into thin air.

"How clever," he mused aloud, though nobody but he and the feline could hear his voice. The cat purred in response, moving forwards to rub itself gently against Albus' leg. The professor stiffened noticeably, but reached down to stroke one willowy finger along the top of the cat's head. "Though your transformation is quite impressive, Miss McGonagall, I can assure you that you are now free to take a more natural shape."

After a beat, Minerva crouched before him, rising to her feet and brushing herself off, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.

"I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it. I've never held the transformation for so long," she said, her grin widening. Dumbledore's eyes glimmered proudly as he offered a small smile in response.

"I had faith in you," Albus returned, almost wistfully as he ran a hand through his beard, his probing eyes assessing her slowly. "Are you all right?" Queried the professor after a moment of silence, his head tilting slightly to the side. Whether he'd plucked the chaotic thoughts straight from her head or could sense her unease she didn't know, nor, did she find, care.

"I'm worried, confused, frustrated," Minerva responded, shrugging. "Among other things. What did… what did the headmaster say?"

"That we are never to speak to one another in a private setting until the moment you graduate, though I should think Armando would like no contact between as at that point, even."

"Oh."

"You are not in trouble, my darling Miss McGonagall, so you may breathe now."

She snorted a laugh, rolling her eyes, though obligingly exhaled, some of the tension in her body leaving as she stepped a little closer to him.

"What about you?"

"No more than usual, Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore replied. She frowned.

"Stop calling me that."

"What should I call you, if not your name? I might call you Susan if you would prefer."

"Minerva," she supplied, though her grin had broken fully out at his words. She briefly considered asking why Susan, but at the moment she simply wanted to relish the playful, blissfully non-complex way in which they were currently relating. The banter was familiar, his words blithe and airy as always, hers chiding but yielding to his whimsy. The only difference was the static that existed between them, how aware she was of his nearness, how he seemed to radiate a sort of magnetism that she was helpless to fight, even now, even with the threat of expulsion or worse hanging dismally over her head.

"It would be unwise." Albus returned after several moments, the glint in his eyes fading very slightly as he tilted his head at her. At least, she thought, he had not ignored her request as he had a few years ago.

"Probably," came her ambivalent response, "but asking me to meet you was pretty unwise in itself." She saw his eyes flash with annoyance, or some similar emotion.

"I only wanted to be sure you knew the repercussions of our actions. I did not want you to think that I am unjustifiably ignoring you… though that is more or less what I intend to do in the weeks to come."

"You're just going to stop talking to me?"

He nodded.

"You won't give me extra lessons? Or help me after class?"

"Regrettably not."

"What if I were to get a detention?"

"It will never happen."

"What if I have a question about an assignment?"

"You are more than free to ask during class, in plain sight of your peers."

"What if I have a question that's not about an assignment?"

"I suppose you should seek the council of your friends."

"What if--"

"MINERVA," He barked abruptly, his temper visibly flaring before giving way to sudden calm. "I will be here for you in the capacity that I should have been from the start -- as a teacher. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And after I graduate?" She hedged, her eyes shifting from his.

"You have asked me far too many questions, my dear. I fear I am out of answers."

Minerva nodded, crossing her arms, thwarted for a moment before something occurred to her, and she peered back up at him with a renewed smile, stepping closer yet so that only several inches separated them.

"Professor?"

"I am shocked," he proclaimed, lifting a hand melodramatically to his heart. "Do you have a question?" She smiled further at his glibness.

"Just a statement," she responded, feeling a little heady due to his closeness. He smelled like the woods behind him and like the smoke from a fireplace. Dimly he smelled of incense and sugar, of sweet things and the distant odor of lilac on the wind. Albus nodded, gesturing with one hand for her to continue. "You called me Minerva."

He smiled a little, his lips twitching at the corners as he lifted his hand to tweak gently her chin. "It won't happen again." He responded, a little unsurely as she moved closer.

"Say it once more," she asked, lifting her chin so that she could peer more ably into his eyes.

"Minerva," he whispered after a beat, the name forbidden and delicious on his tongue as he suddenly realized how close they really were. "Minerva," he said again as she leaned into him, her breath on his lips and his on hers. Her mouth parted with expectation as he once more murmured her name.

Though he ached to hold her to him and never let her go, to kiss her and touch her and even beg for his own name to pass her surpassingly tempting lips… he ached for so many things that he shouldn't have, and it injured him further to know that no matter what he couldn't quite control himself around her. Her body pressed against his, her chest against his, her hips pressed against the folds of his voluminous cloaks, her fingers resting like a plea against his hands, which hung at his sides as they stood, separated by a thought-thin space that existed between their lips.

In the instant he most wanted to capture her mouth with his, in the instant during which the very edge of her lower lips began to graze his, he suddenly grabbed her face between his hands, and pressed a lingering kiss on her forehead, his hands shaking slightly against her skin, a shiver running through her as she felt his tongue fleetingly against her. Quickly as he had snatched her he released her and moved away, looking like a statue as he gazed not at her, but into the distance.

"I think I won't be in class tomorrow," he said after a few moments had passed; her skin still tingled from his touch, her every pore crying for renewed closeness.

"What do you mean?"

"There are things outside of this castle I have long postponed pursuing for any number of reasons. I think now is a good time to resolve some lingering conflicts."

"Sir, what…?"

"Hm," he said, tilting his head, a peculiar expression on his face. "Just thinking aloud. Maybe nothing will come of it. My thoughts, after all, have very long corridors to wander…" He trailed off, and when his eyes refocused and he found hers, his visage was soft like a watercolor painting, affectionate as he brushed the back of his hand against the side of her face. She leaned into his touch.

"The glamour will wear off once you are returned to your room. You needn't turn back into a cat." He said with a small smile. She felt utterly bewildered, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of _him_. She knew him better than most, she thought. His way of thinking, his mannerisms, the pendulum swings of his mood. She was, however, suddenly struck by how larger than life he really was, and so stood silently as he reached down and grabbed her hand. He placed a soft, chaste kiss on ever knuckle, on the back of her hand, and then on her wrist. He finished by placing a marginally less chaste kiss on her palm, his lips lingering as he peered into her eyes with a formidable mix of emotions she couldn't begin to comprehend. "Farewell, Minerva."

The words, she realized a few moments later as she walked alone through the corridors, sounded too definitive. Too much like an actual goodbye; his eyes had been too serious, his mood too inconsistent. As she slipped into bed, she assured herself nothing was wrong, that nothing would change, if not only to allow herself some sleep.

She had no idea that he'd be gone by morning.


	25. The Prodigal Son

_A/N: Of course he'll return, Tabitha! Although I'm still 50/50 on how pleasantly the story will end overall, I have a great many things to do before I conclude, thus Albus will have to be present. And I should love to read your story as soon as I get a free minute. I'm glad ya'll love the tension, and I'll be sure to change the tomcat, thanks for the heads up. My brain is hardly present lately..._

* * *

When Albus had told him, he had been furious. Beyond furious, in fact. He had been positively livid to a height he had never in recent memory been -- when he had stopped spluttering and shouting and Albus had actually had a few moments to explain, he had cooled off enough to recognize that his decision to take an intermission from his teaching post was a good one on many levels.

First and foremost, it got Albus far, far away from Minerva McGonagall, which was absolutely good for Armando's sanity and peace of mind. Although his absence would detract from Hogwarts' prestige, the school could go on, and he had said that he would return as soon as it was possible for him to do so. Additionally, Armando wasn't sure that he could handle any more confrontations with Albus, nor did he want to have to constantly prove to his staff that he was at least as competent as the _famous Albus Dumbledore_. So for him, it seemed like a good idea, although he still retained a little irritation at the short notice Albus had provided him with.

As far as the wizarding world was concerned, Albus couldn't have made a better decision. With whispers of Grindelwald slowly extending past Germany and now overtaking many conversations between his staff, something had to be done. And naturally, Dumbledore felt himself the one for the job. His arrogance was all at once a point of contention with Dippet and a point of envy.

Now, though, standing before the entire school as they chatted quietly over breakfast, he could help but feel a little guilty that he hadn't offered Albus a better send off. Who knew if he would return? Armando swallowed as the thought occurred to him.

The students began to quiet until a hush had settled over the great hall, leaving the quiet clatter of spoons and the distant shuffle of napkins as everybody waited for Armando to speak.

"Thank you for your attention," he said with a smile, folding his hands on the podium before him. "I hope you'll allow me a few moments of your time to explain the rather conspicuous absence of your Transfiguration professor." He paused his eyes scanning over the crowd as the gossiping began. He was mildly amused to hear bits and pieces of the students' own theories until his eyes fell to the girl most recently in question.

Minerva McGonagall looked thunderstruck. Pale and wan and staring at the table before her, Armando watched as she lifted her hands from beneath the table and folded them in front of her -- her fingers shook precariously, and as he took a deep breath, she peered up at him, and even from the distance he could see the water in her eyes.

"Professor Dumbledore has taken an indefinite, but ultimately temporary, sabbatical." Armando paused, hesitating as he saw Minerva shift in her seat, readying for a swift departure. Her severe features were puckered with the effort it took to hold whatever she was feeling in. Pity swept over him, but was quickly effaced by a renewed revulsion for Albus -- how could he have led her on so?

"I am sure many of you have heard at least rumors of one Gellert Grindelwald, a very dark, very nasty wizard who has been making a name for himself in Germany of late. With his influence increasingly pervasive and increasingly unpleasant, Professor Dumbledore has volunteered his services in aiding the forces against him." Armando paused, his eyes flitting over Minerva once more. He faltered before adding, "his actions, while sudden, are heroic. Despite his absence, you all might taken a lesson in humanity from the professor. Transfiguration classes are not, to your disappointment I'm sure, cancelled. While Dumbledore is away, we have a temporary substitute to oversee the assignments that Dumbledore has left over.

He gestured for them to leave, though remained at the podium to watch the flurry of robes as Minerva McGonagall darted from the great hall more quickly than he had ever seen her move, any sounds she may have made lost in the chaos as the other students' silence grew into a dull roar.

* * *

Minerva fled to the bathroom as quickly as she could. She had never fancied herself a swooning, simpering school girl dependant upon a _man_. But there were so many things on her mind -- their relationship had been so tumultuous and tense and uneasy that she'd felt as though she was on the verge of vomiting for weeks now, and now, having been introduced to the definitive end to whatever was between she and Dumbledore, she felt the bile rising up in her throat. Once she was out of the sight of her classmates, she ran to the bathroom, collapsing into a stall and slamming the door behind her as she wretched into the bowl. Feeling empty to the very core, she wiped her mouth, still trembling slightly as she closed the toilet lid and sat down, covering her face in her hands.

When it had first occurred to her that Dumbledore had left, she had felt dreadful. Now, though, knowing not only that it was she who had driven him away, but that she had driven him into the arms of war, into potentially fatal danger, she wasn't sure she would ever be able to get up again.

She sat still for several minutes until she heard the chattering and tip-tap of shoes as a small group of first years filed in. Deciding she would have to head out less she be entirely too late to class, Minerva stood and straightened herself up as best she could. Despite the turmoil brewing heatedly within her, she hadn't shed a tear. Still, as Minerva approached the sink to wash her hands, she knew herself to look too pale, her skin to look especially tight against the sharp bones of her face. She jutted her chin upwards as though to defy herself, her green eyes soft, devoid of their usual keenness. Sniffing loudly, she brushed invisible wrinkles from her robes and marched purposefully from the bathroom and towards her first class, determined that no one should know how broken her heart felt.


	26. Psychology 101

"How are you today, Miss McGonagall?" Dippet asked with a slight tilt to his head.

"Fine, headmaster. How are you?"

A pause.

"Are you really now?" Questioned the Headmaster after a moment, striking his chin with his hand, his eyes narrowing in such an obliquely curious manner that she scoots back in her chair a little.

"Really what, sir?"

"Really fine."

"I'm sure I am, sir. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Hm," Armando said, leaning back in his chair as he eyed Minerva over the edge of his desk. He held frequent staff meetings, alternating between discussions of curriculum, of troublesome students, miscellaneous topics, and any concerns the staff had. After their most recent meeting about everybody's concerns, Armando had received more than one comment about Minerva McGonagall. When her name had entered into the air of the staffroom, every teacher who had her had voiced agreement. She was bright. Brilliant, even. Easily the most intelligent student at Hogwarts. Vastly impressive work ethic. Respectful to teachers and peers. Infallibly well-behaved. And, the cause of recent concern, as vacant and listless of late as a husk of corn.

"May I ask, sir, why you asked me here? With all due respect, I would hate to get behind in Charms."

"Miss McGonagall," Armando responded with a thin smile as he observed her perfectly composed features. "I daresay you could miss class for a month and not fall behind. Not that I would advise it." He paused, and Minerva twisted a ring on her finger, staring at her hands. He could tell that she was trying to retain her calm, pleasant façade. She was always polite when he, or anyone else addressed her -- it had never occurred to him that it might actually take a significant amount of effort for her to remain so, especially given what he assumed had been eating away at her for the past month. "I asked you here because several of your teachers expressed concern for your wellbeing."

"Are my grades slipping, sir?" For the first time since she'd entered his office, Armando spotted a shred of emotion pass through her eyes -- a flicker of unease.

"No, no, nothing quite like that. You just aren't, they say, yourself of late. And I think that I must concur."

She hesitated.

"I promise, sir, I'm fine."

"What if I say that I don't believe you?"

"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Headmaster. My grades are impeccable. I haven't been in trouble in years. I tutor first and second years. I'm inches away from being the youngest animagus in recent history. What more do you want from me?"

"A smile would do."

"Sir?"

"I know that you were close to Professor Dumbledore," Armando hedged, shifting in his seat a little uneasily. Minerva turned an unflattering shade of red. "I would bet that it is his absence that has been making you so… listless of late."

"I don't gamble, sir." Minerva said, her tone unusually icy, and Armando raised his brows.

"He didn't leave because of you. Is that what you've been thinking?"

"May I please return to class?"

"Not quite yet. What are you so afraid of?"

"What are you talking about… sir?"

"Every time I mention him I can see it in your eyes. Fear. Ill-ease. Why?"

"Professor Dumbledore has gone to war, Headmaster." She said slowly, her green eyes swaying up to meet his.

"I am not unaware."

"He could die. And it would be my fault."

"If anybody's, it would be his, Miss McGonagall. He made the decision to go and fight Grindelwald. I am led to believe that they have something of a history." Armando responded carefully. His correspondence with Albus since his departure had been limited -- Dumbledore would send the occasional letter, telling Armando nothing of his life but rather saying that he would return soon and asking endless questions about the school's welfare. For all of his insurmountable genius, Albus Dumbledore's heart was undoubtedly in the school.

Minerva sat silently in response, leaning back and rubbing her shoulder. She bit her lower lip before shrugging. She hardly wanted to discuss her innermost thoughts with her headmaster, especially when her relationship with Dumbledore was so taboo. It was, she thought, the equivalent of explaining the motives of one's crime to the local police department.

"Whatever the case, sir, I feel bad about what has happened. And, yes," she nodded, frowning as she drew her gaze to the headmaster's for the first time, "I miss the Professor, but it doesn't have the sway over me you seem to think it does. If nothing else, my problem right now is how judgmental you've proved to be."

Armando stiffened at her words, puffing up much like a peacock who felt far too close to a curious child. Clearly offended and annoyed by her increasing bravado, a frown overtook his previously pleasant features.

"Any one else would say I've been quite tolerant of Professor Dumbledore's… indecencies."

"What exactly is so indecent, sir?" She asked, though turned almost instantly red as she recalled the way Armando had discovered their unintentional relationship.

"Your perspective is clouded, Miss McGonagall," Armando responds after several moments of silently watching his hands. "Would you like to hear what I believe to be the truth of the matter?"

She nodded.

"I see a girl who lost her father and her grandfather when she was twelve. I watched as Professor Dumbledore drew you carefully from the shell you withdrew into, coaxed you back into the world. I watched him fill the paternal role you so completely lost. And then I watched him take this childishly boundless trust you had in him and twist it into whatever it now is. I witnessed, in action, the _great Albus Dumbledore_ taking advantage of a child's need for a father figure for… for… sexual gratification."

Minerva stood, her eyes dark and hard and her hands quivering as she tried to pick the words from her screaming mind.

"May I go now, headmaster?"

"Miss McGonagall, child, please --" Minerva cut him off with a hand movement so sudden and violent that Armando was stopped dead in his tracks.

"Seventeen," she said simply, her chin inclining upwards defiantly.

"Excuse me?"

"I am seventeen years old, sir, as of October. I am of age. Officially an adult. I am not a child by any means, neither by age nor by life experience. With all due respect, sir, it is your perspective, not mine, that is clouded."

"It's psychology, Miss McGonagall, simple, muggle psychology." Dippet murmured after a beat, twisting a ring on his finger. While he had hoped to ease Minerva's pain, persuade her to speak openly to him so that they might resolve her troubles, it was more than clear that such an agenda wouldn't be completed.

"Is psychology a science, sir?"

"Of sorts."

"I mean, Headmaster, is it a quantifiable, measurable science?"

"I suppose not."

Minerva drew herself to her full height, her spine straight, her head lifted, her finely-boned nose thrust into the air. She appeared quite the anachronism in his office, more comparable to an aristocrat of old than a contemporary pupil.

"And love, sir? Is that a science?"

"No," he hedged, growing more and more uneasy.

"Then why are you so keen to… classify me," she paused, shrugging a little, "or my _past_ relationship with the Professor as one as opposed to the other?"


	27. The Prodigal Brother

_A/N: I apologize for the lateness and quality of these chapters. I'm pressed for time, and I find myself totally and completely uninterested in the majority of what I planned to go on in Dumbledore's absence, thus the slightly abbreviated and contrived version you find yourself in. Should, with luck, get better. _

He had replaced his brother most unwillingly, and as usual, most un_wit_tingly.

Generally, in the wizarding world, one didn't train to become a teacher, but rather made themselves a candidate to become a professor through achievement. Young teachers were rare, but not unheard of -- if one had a passion to teach, they apprenticed for as long as it took them to become so venerated a figure as to be invited to Hogwarts or Durmstrangs or Beauxbatons, or any of the other schools.

However, even by these standards, Aberforth was grossly under-qualified. Although less than obliging to Albus' wishes for more reasons than he could count and both hands and feet, Aberforth had found himself succumbing to his brother's plea, and if Albus Dumbledore wanted it, his will may as well have been law. Though Dippet had required an interview, Aberforth had grumbled and moaned all through it, only to find the headmaster denoting Albus' request and shaking Aberforth's hand with the fakest of smiles on his face as he welcomed him to the Hogwarts staff.

Of course there wasn't much for Aberforth to do. Albus had left extensive lesson plans. Everything Aberforth needed was prepared and organized to completely that he couldn't have mucked it up if he had wanted to -- which he did, half way, but before Albus had left, he had explained (in a frustrating lack of detail) what had transpired over the past few months.

So Aberforth was pretty excited to meet the witch who had managed to trip up his infallible brother. Besides, Albus had assured him that he would return within a few months at the very most.

Minerva McGonagall had quickly asserted herself as the brightest student in her year, even though Aberforth only knew what they were talking about half of the time. She was cold, detached, severe in manner as well as feature. He couldn't imagine that _that girl_, that brainy, quietly know-it-all, sharply featured, green-eyed, island-of-a-girl was the one who had managed to throw his brother so entirely out of orbit. And even less could he imagine Minerva engaging in any sort of tryst with a teacher.

But at the same time, he could see them together. He could see how her seriousness might complement his brother's propensity to be a total airhead. He could see how Albus might derive more joy from making Minerva laugh with his inane humor than anybody else. Of course she was intelligent, which would presumably keep him from getting bored with her as he almost invariably did to anybody else. And, the most convincing evidence, was the way she said his name.

Not Albus' name. She never even spoke of her former transfiguration professor, even whilst her peers asked question after question about what it had been like to grow up with Albus Dumbledore. She did, however, have to call Aberforth _Professor_.

Professor Dumbledore.

She said it so quietly that it seemed like she wanted to swallow the words as soon as they passed her lips. The _r_'s rolled off of her burr like mercury, her pretty accenting curving an lilting with affectionate familiarity. That, right there, the simple way she said his name, was enough proof for Aberforth that perhaps his brother hadn't screwed up as royally as he usually did. Perhaps his brother should have stayed. Perhaps, Aberforth thought, this little girl might straighten Albus out. Perhaps she was the best thing for him.

Of course he'd never say that out loud, because that would mean he'd gone soft. Which he of course hadn't. And it also might cause Albus to believe that the grudge Aberforth had been clinging to for so many years had finally faded to obscurity -- which it hadn't by any means. It wasn't that he wanted his brother to find happiness… it just seemed like a pity that he was so adamantly throwing it away.

"Professor?"

"Hrm." Aberforth responded politely, peering up at Minerva McGonagall from beneath the unruly brown of his eyebrows. She seemed to hesitate at her desk, rubbing her arm as the final students filed out, leaving him alone with her as she approached his desk. He peered impatiently at his watch, making it known that he had important places to be.

"I was wondering, that is, if you wouldn't mind telling me, because I understand it is or may be private and --"

"All right, spit it out," encouraged the temporary professor as he leaned slightly towards her. Somehow she seemed to recoil even though she didn't move.

"I was wondering if you knew when the other Professor Dumbledore would be returning." She concluded, shifting her weight. She had half-hoped that he would have written to her, but of course he hadn't. And it had been a few months now. Her graduation date was ever-approaching, and without any prospect of saying goodbye, of things ending on her terms rather than his, she grew ever more annoyed with her utter lack of control.

Aberforth resisted a smirk as she said it, the name, like a prayer on her tongue as her cheeks turned the slightest hue of pink. She frowned, evidently put out by his manners.

"My brother and I don't keep in close contact." He said succinctly. She frowned more pronouncedly.

"I see. Thank you for your time, any way, sir." She nodded respectfully and began to turn away. For one reason or another, Aberforth found himself rising to stand, searching for something to prolong the conversation.

"D'you know why?"

"No," Minerva responded, turning around with an eyebrow raised, though she by no means seemed surprised that he had resumed speaking.

"Because he has a calling, y'see. His greatest romance, his most enduring lover… do you know the name?"

Minerva shook her head, her lips drawn tight. Aberforth leaned back, folding his hands behind his head.

"Martyrdom," he supplied. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I think it's absurd, too. He has everything, right? Albus Dumbledore, greatest wizarding mind ever. Albus Dumbledore, most powerful man alive. Albus Dumbledore, able to charm his way into every circle. Albus Dumbledore and those dreamy blue eyes… But he doesn't want it. He sure as hell doesn't deserve it. He just wants everybody to know how much he has so that we all appreciate how much he lost when he finally falls."

Minerva opened her mouth to respond just as the door to the class room opened and closed so gingerly that she would have written it off as one of the many creaks of the ancient school had Aberforth not smiled a little smugly before rising to his feet.

"Were your ears burning?"

"Why?" Queried Albus as he stepped further into the room. "Do you smell smoke?" He inquired further in his usual, remote fashion. Minerva stood so very still that the room seemed to echo her total silence. She heard his feet against the floor as Albus approached from behind, skirting around her so that a few feet separated them as he turned to face her. Feeling his eyes on her for the first time in months, she was unsure if she ought to dance or cry. "I see that you are much in the same position that I left you in, Miss McGonagall. Asking one too many questions of your poor professors." He commented good-naturedly as she slowly dragged her eyes up to look at him. Or, rather, a gaunt and shadowy-eyed version of the Albus Dumbledore she had known, thinner than she remembered and paler, his auburn hair slightly darker, as though he hadn't much seen the sun. The slight change in coloration made his eyes all the more vivid, wide and blue and bright and probing as always, but magnified so that she almost felt inclined to look away as though from the sun by the circles beneath them.

"Does this mean I can go?"

"You ought to check in with the headmaster. And I should like to speak with you about the students' progress, but for now, yes, your favor to me is done."

Aberforth grunted a little, nodded, waved slightly to Minerva, and left, leaving she and Albus standing silently in the classroom.


	28. The Most Intimate Embrace

They stood silently for several moments, neither knowing quite what to do in the situation. Instinctively, Minerva wanted to bury herself in him. To fly towards him, wrap her arms fitfully around him, and lose herself in the his saccharine scent and the simply happiness to see him returned in one piece. The anger she felt towards him dissuaded her from such a reaction. How impossibly unfair had it been for him to leave without saying goodbye, without speaking to her about it beyond cryptic murmurings that could have meant anything? Although they had never had a conversation that bound him to her or vise versa, she had always imagined that they were, in some abstract, incorporeal way, in a relationship. Even if he disagreed, he owed her at least an explanation.

Thus Minerva was caught somewhere between irate and bliss.

"In light of the circumstances, I should think the headmaster would not begrudge you a hug," Albus asserted finally, his head tilting to the side and his hands splaying slightly as though to invite her towards him. She wavered despite the warmth she felt spread through her at the thought.

"I haven't decided if I should hug you," Minerva said, "or slap you." His response was a peal of strained laughter, the sound seeming strangely hoarse, as though he hadn't laughed in some time.

"If I may be so bold, you might hug me now and slap me at a later time if it still suits you."

"That sounds reasonable." She responded seriously as his lips curved into a genteel smile. She hesitated for a moment more before going to him at lest. He enveloped her in his arms, surrounding her with his scent and the illustrious fabric of his robes and the soft hair of his beard as he tucked her head beneath his chin and drew her impossibly close, holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe…

"Minerva --"

…and then he choked out her name, and she realized that it was she clutching him so very tightly, but she quickly decided he mustn't mind too much, for he had used her name, and so hugged him all the tighter.

"I have missed you so, my dear." He murmured into her dark hair, placing a soft kiss on the crown of her head that sent a quiet tingle all through her skin.

She slackened her grip on him, stepping back slightly as she peered up into his familiar blue eyes with a smile, the anger eradicated and completely overtaken by the simple intimacy of an embrace. He stepped back, his hands still holding her arms near the shoulder, appraising her with his eyes, a matching grin dancing blithely across his features.

"Now, if you don't mind, I should very much like to know how you have fared in my absence. However, if I don't sit down, there is a frighteningly high possibility that I will either collapse or fall asleep, neither of which would render me very congenial company."

"Of course," Minerva responded, worry coloring her voice as she furrowed her brow and stepped back. He smiled and she watched uneasily as he limped to the door that adjoined to his office. She hurriedly moved to open the door for him, and though he frowned he didn't rebuff her for her actions, though she knew he must have hated to be forced to depend on her for such a menial task. Actually, she thought as her concern grew, she felt pretty confident that he had to be in a significant amount of pain to admit that he was suffering at all. As he settled into the swiveling armchair near the window, she asked, "are you all right, sir?"

He smiled wearily. "In time, my dear, we might talk about me. How are you?" He deflected, and she noticed for the first time how jaded his voice sounded.

"I'm fine."

"How have your classes been?"

"At times dull, to be frank. I have missed the extended lessons you offered me."

"Hm. And how are your friends?"

"Good, sir."

"No drama in Gryffindor?"

"None."

"No drama with you?"

"Naturally."

"No trouble?"

"The headmaster met with me a month or so ago, but other than that, I've behaved myself."

"What did he want with you, if you shouldn't mind me asking?"

"Concerns," she responded noncommittally, none too inclined to admit that his absence, while not crippling, had effected her enough that others had noticed. "Concerns my teachers had about me. But I quickly set him straight."

Dumbledore smiled lopsidedly, his cheek pressing to the side of his mouth. "Back-stepping, am I to interpret what you said to mean that you did _not_ behave yourself around the headmaster?"

"Um," Minerva returned a little uneasily.

"I see." Albus paused, nodding, peering about as he processed everything. "You are not exactly a wealth of information this evening, my dear Miss McGonagall."

"Quid pro quo," she chimed keenly, finally dropping into the chair adjacent to his.

"Touché."

They fell silent once more, Minerva hoping that by refusing to speak openly to him he would find himself obligated to speak to her. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window pane, his hands folded neatly across his lap. She took the moment to look him over, to make sure that nothing else had changed, that there were no obvious injuries from the war.

He, as she had previously noted, had lost weight and sleep and coloring, but that was to be expected, much as it bothered her. At least one of his legs was not in proper working order, as she had surmised from his ungainly trek to his office. The tilt of his arm had caused his sleeve to droop like a wilted purple flower, unveiling a string of bruises on the underside of his wrist that disappeared beneath the fabric. On the opposite hand, his index finger was black and blue and swollen so that it stuck out at an odd angle from his hand. As he readjusted his head, she could see what appeared to be bruising along his clavicle, though, she hoped, it was just a trick of the light.

"I have defeated Grindelwald." Denoted Albus softly and suddenly, his blue eyes peeling open to gage her reaction. She schooled her features into impassivity until he had elaborated. "It is something I have been working towards since first whispers of his rise began, though less directly. When things began to fall into place, I left to participate fully. And now it is over, and I have won." The words were spoken with such an unfounded sadness that Minerva was at a loss for words as she looked upon him, tried and hurt and so incredibly sad despite his victory.

"Shouldn't you be happy?"

"Oh, my dear," he sighed, leaning towards her slightly. "There are many layers to any conflict. Grindelwald, in the past, was not a madman, but my very closest companion."

She widened her eyes with surprise, and her innate curiosity begged her to inquire further, but as Albus looked away, the water accumulating slowly in his bottomless eyes caught the light from the setting sun, and she choked back her questions.

"Sir…" She hoarsely began, though she had nothing to console him. He leaned further forwards until his head was bowed, and Minerva watched, distraught, as he slipped his injured hand behind his glasses and wiped at his eyes and shielded them from her view. She was overcome quite suddenly with sympathy, with her affection for him, with his candor. She acted without thinking, and perhaps, she decided, it was better that way. At least for the moment she was the one person in all the world he felt comfortable enough to confide in, and so she needed to support him, to help him as he had her so very many times. Rules of propriety be damned; her concern was for his well-being. "Professor," she whispered then, rising to her feet and approaching him. Minerva crouched before his chair, her hands resting gingerly on his knees as she peered up at him. Still he didn't look, but rather she saw the minute shake of his shoulders as he swallowed his sadness. Everything, always, he swallowed. Everything was always internal with Albus Dumbledore. She wished so very dearly that she was in the position to force it out of him.

"Albus," she whispered finally, and his hand fell from his face as she stood up, reaching one hand out to wipe the tears from his reddened face. Silently she maneuvered herself onto his lap, carefully watching his face to be sure she didn't hurt him as she sat sideways, curling like a cat against him, her arms drawing around him as she once more clutched him to her so that his sobs were padded by her body until they dissipated into nothing. She rested her head against his chest, listening solemnly to his heartbeat as his tears fell into her hair.


	29. The Second Most Intimate Embrace

When he was himself once again, it was dark and Minerva was sure that they were on the cusp of infringing upon the borrowed time together. It was entirely possible that right now some Gryffindor looking to stick it to the prefect was approaching the headmaster's office even as Albus reached for her hand and began to stroke the back of it with his thumb. It was very likely that, despite having locked the door this time, her need to comfort him would be their definitive undoing. But, frankly, she couldn't bring herself to care.

"I am sorry, my dear," Albus said, his voice steady and decidedly his rather than the jaded, ghostly timbre that had recently passed his lips. Minerva shook her head.

"You just saved our world," she responded, "and your first reaction is to mourn the death of the villain and then to apologize."

"Even those misguided deserve to be grieved." He returned, and in his words she sensed his desire to speak on the subject no more, at the very least for the time-being. He had worn himself to the bone over the past few months, mentally, physically, and emotionally, and with the final purging of his long pent-up tears, he wanted to do nothing but revel in her presence and pretend that it wasn't wrong to do so.

He brought her hand to her lips and kissed it lightly, his eyes fixed on her palm as he traced the lines with his ring finger, bringing her attention once more to his injuries.

"You ought to see the nurse," she commented, adjusting herself on his lap. Latently it occurred to her that she was being unnaturally forward in remaining in such a position, but she continually shoved the thought far from her mind.

"In time. It's just one little bruise."

Minerva frowned, twisting so that she now held his hand. She applied the slightest pressure to the offending digit, and when he winced she raised a brow.

"I'm pretty sure that's one little broken bone."

"Well, it's just a finger. I do, in fact, have nine more." She smiled, rolling her eyes, and for a moment he thought he had deterred her -- of course, time had dulled his memory of her obstinacy, and even after the temporary glibness she fixed him seriously with her emerald gaze once more.

"What about your leg?"

"The curse will wear off sooner or later."

"And your wrist?" She queried, reaching towards his other arm even as he pulled it away like a stubborn child.

"Again, it's just a bruise, Minerva."

"I doubt it." She commented finally succeeding in reaching his arm and pushing the sleeve up to reveal a slender, deepening bruise that extended far beyond what she had speculated. She forced the sleeve up as far as she could, and still it continued and widened to the hem of his shoulder. "A fracture, at least."

"No, mother. It's not a fracture. Please, let me revel in my battle scars." He placated, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shaking the sleeve back down to cover the ugly marking. She snorted at his wryness, annoyed, but deciding she couldn't force him to get treatment.

"Will you at least let me get you some ice?" She asked uselessly. He considered her for a few moments, his eyes battling with hers until he finally sighed and nodded.

"If it will make you happy." He assented, and she thought for a moment. Obviously she could slide from his lap, leave the room and get ice herself, but she was loathe to do either, and so she slid her want from the pocket of her robes and gave it a ginger flick, summoning the glass of water Aberforth had left on the desk in the classroom to her -- it would have been the simplest of tasks to simply speak the words out loud, but as always she foolishly sought to impress him, and so ended up exhausting herself by calling it to her silently. Somehow he seemed to know, as he often did -- by the time the glass landed in her palm, it was full of ice rather than water, and she cast him a disparaging glance. Of course, he feigned innocence.

She pulled a handkerchief from the inner pockets of her robes and wrapped a couple of ice cubes inside of it. "Let me see," she murmured, and he offered her the hand with the broken finger. She really wished he would go see the nurse. She swallowed the thought and gently held the ice against his finger, and he gasped quietly at the contact.

They chatted idly as she iced his finger, trailed it up his arm. He pulled at the collar of his robe, revealing the ugliest of his injuries to her with an expression that begged her not to comment. Biting her lip hard, she replaced the ice and held it against his collar bone, nearly black with bruising. And then they continued to talk. As she went to pull the ice away, she realized that the bruising was far more extensive than she had first surmised. She caught the edge of another marking, this one scabbed over, beneath the bruise.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," he responded, his voice such that she blushed slightly.

"Will you take off your robe?"

"To be perfectly honest, Miss McGonagall, I did not expect that that would be your request." He responded after an uneasy beat, and she turned even more red, shaking her head.

"It's just I want to make sure your entrails aren't leaking out of your body, because you're not exactly being a wealth of information, either."

He once more seemed to appraise her, calculating, thinking. She was so entirely sincere in her concern, in her desire to care for him that, in his rather unstable state, he felt as though he might cry again. And although her motives were platonic, he knew that her request, if accepted, would place them in a precarious situation. If they were discovered, disaster. If they weren't, catastrophe.

However, it also occurred to him that she would be graduating in little over a month. At that point, although not necessarily a good idea, perhaps they could take up a relationship. A real one, without all of the necessary cloak-and-dagger routine they were forced to pull now. And right there, at that moment, Albus felt as though they had become closer in the past few hours than they ever had during their… decidedly less coherent exchanges at other times. He had, in his exhaustion, allowed her a physical proximity that he probably shouldn't have, and even more surprising, allowed the vast ivory walls that so fully encompassed him to fall. She had stood by him, comforted him when he needed it most despite the backwardness of his grief and how abruptly and unkindly he had left her. If he had doubted it before, Albus was now rather assured that whatever feelings existed between them were genuine rather than the simple product of a desirable and illicit tryst between teacher and student.

Despite the complexity of his thoughts, of the situation, Albus finally nodded, and then stared at her. She blinked owlishly, and he smiled a little at the confused expression in her green eyes.

"If I am to get up, you must as well." He stated with a smirk, and she looked a little embarrassed, a little flustered as she scooted from his lap and onto the floor. He sat still for a moment, already regretting his decision as she stood with her back to him, adjusting her robes, seemingly unaware that her backside was in her professor's face. He swallowed grimly as she stepped away from him, rising unsteadily behind her. His hand shot immediately to his leg as a sharp stab of pain ricocheted from his calf to his hip and back again, and his face clouded with agony for a split second.

She of course noticed, because she hardly missed a motion he made, and he felt her small hand close around his shoulder with concern. Even though a dull throb had taken up residence in his right leg, he managed to compose himself and smile affably at her, shaking his head so that she knew he was fine. As he reached for the topmost button of his cloaks, she suddenly seemed a little less sure and began to babble as she moved towards the shelves that held his books, as well as various and sundry other materials.

"Do you have any kind of antiseptic potion? A first aid kit, maybe?" Was the only thing that was truly of consequence, and Albus nodded in response, pointing wordlessly to a little box on an upper shelf as he finished unbuttoning his robes. She pivoted quite quickly towards the shelves, reaching as high as she could until she remembered that she was a witch, and instead summoned it wordlessly, but out loud to avoid her previous predicament.

"There ought to be one in there," Dumbledore commented as he slid his robes off of his shoulders, wincing as he draped them over the chair behind him. He wore some raggedy, old, obviously well-loved muggle pants beneath his cloaks, and the t-shirt underneath was clean, but showed the same signs of wear. As she turned around to look at him, she bit her lip.

"You're going to have to take that off," Minerva half-whispered, gesturing to the shirt. Through the thin and well-worn material she could see the dark shadows of bruising. She briefly entertained the idea of requesting that he remove his trousers as well, but decided she had best not bother with the leg. There wasn't much she could do there, after all.

He gave her a withering stare. "It would hardly be appropriate."

She raised a brow. "Aren't we past that now?"

"No. You often forget, my darling Miss McGonagall, that I am of a different time than you. I am, despite what you would think, _middle-aged_, and my upbringing was a little more strict in way of propriety than your own."

She accepted what he said. It was true, she often blocked the age difference out of her mind. It was also true that the age difference created a gap in beliefs, in the way they gauged what was and wasn't appropriate. However, she wanted to help him, and his archaic idea of etiquette was getting in her way. So she mimicked his stare and after several moments he finally assented, though not with good cheer, crossing his arms over his chest and pulling his shirt over his head. At first her eyes were glued to the first aid kit as she withdrew a few potions to be tactilely applied , but then she was forced to assess the damage, and she stepped closer to her half-naked and thusly awkward professor, avoiding his eyes -- the minute her gaze saw the extent of his injuries, however, she couldn't have looked away if she wanted to. She let out a gasp of dismay.

The dark, ugly bruise on his collar bone extended down all across his chest, framing a scabby and otherwise still open laceration that covered his sternum. Bruises and scrapes dotted the waistband of his pants. His thinness accented his injuries, his hipbones jutting from the sides of his body and making the bruising there much more apparent. She could see faintly the outline of his ribs as he breathed erratically, and thought with concern how painful even _breathing_ must be. She was no mediwitch, but she was fairly certain from the giant bruise and swelling covering his chest that at least one rib was broken.

Minerva, her face full of concern, approached him further, reaching around him though she was careful not to touch him in order to place two of the three vials clasped between her fingers down. Minerva uncorked the vial and poured a slick substance not dissimilar to toothpaste onto her hand.

"Tell me if I hurt you," she murmured, her eyes still far from his as she reached out and gently began to rub the ointment around the edges of his most gruesome laceration. She continued to move inwards until she was, as gingerly as possible, pressing the stuff into his open wound.

"You could never," he responded through gritted teeth. She saw his hands clasp painfully, but chose to ignore it. It would heal him in the long run she thought as she brushed his beard to the side, revealing the entirety of the bruise on his collarbone. She let out another whimper.

"Professor," she cried softly, "you really should see somebody more capable than me."

"Nonsense. I feel perfectly safe in your capable hands."

She frowned and continued until his entire torso was covered with three different salves. She had even bandaged the central wound a little haphazardly, but all in all she was pretty satisfied with her work.

"Feel better?" She inquired with a small smile, her hand smoothing out the edges of the bandage against his chest. He nodded, smiling in return.

And then they stood there.

Smiling.

Awkwardly.

Tensely.

"Thank you," Albus croaked, reaching up to cover her hand with his own. She nodded, suddenly conscious of the whole situation. Whereas before she had been trying to remain calm, to simply focus on helping him, to keep from panicking from the extent of his injuries, now her work was done, and she was forced into a sudden and uncomfortable idleness that forced her to acknowledge how very close he was to her, and how very, inexplicably unclothed.

"Mhm." Minerva responded as he, for the second time that evening, pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. She closed her eyes. "I should be going… someone might get to worrying and wondering…" He made a noise of assent even as they drew closer together -- whether he pulled her or she him neither knew, but either way she was so close that he couldn't resist placing a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. She smiled, but made no move to leave or open her eyes.

"I shouldn't wish to keep you any longer…" He said.

"I never mind when you do…" She said.

"The headmaster, however, and the rest of the world…" He said.

"Isn't here right now." She said.

"No." He said.

"No." She said.

Their words blurred together as he moved to kiss her eyelids, her forehead, her temples, and the sensitive alcove beneath her ears. He kissed the side of her neck, her throat, and finally he hovered above her lips, trying to decide what ought to be done at this point, because clearly whatever drew him to her was a force of nature, nothing light enough to be reckoned with.

"Yes," she breathed _sotto voce_, and at her encouragement he bent to press his lips softly to hers as his hand moved to cradle the back of her neck. Soon her mouth had opened unto his and in the most complete and full way possible they devoured each other, their faces so forcefully together that it nearly distorted their features so that, like their words, the lines between them blurred; their heartbeats seemed to synchronize, their breathing in concert. One being comprised of two -- and this time, the door was locked, and the night, full of stars like glimmering, endless possibilities, had only begun.

_A/N: So I'm much happier with this chapter, and I hope that you will be too! Though surely less happy with yet another cliffhanger (because it is one, if you were unsure)… Apparently I'm just a hack and can't resist. ___


	30. Right and Wrong

_A/N: Thank you once again for all of the fantastic reviews! It's tremendously appreciated as always, and I got around to replying to most of you this time 'round -- I'm gonna work on being better about that. However, I'd like to give a special little shout to TartanPhoenix, because the fact that you reviewed (and I don't know if you have before and I just didn't realize, but) means a lot to me, because I'm a pretty mad lover of you writing. Anyway, I hope this chapter lives up to everybody's expectations. :)_

He withdrew after a few moments, as she knew that he would. He was, around her, a constant paradox -- he clung tenaciously to his dated rules of etiquette, of courtship, of appropriateness, and yet almost always it was him who overstepped his own parameters. At the same time, he was always the first to realize what he had done, and for once she resisted more forcefully, keeping her arms tightly wrapped around him as he pulled away from her, one hand brushing her skin softly as it fell away from her neck. He looked down, ashamed and, as always, internally overwrought.

"I am very sorry," he said quietly, and Minerva rolled her eyes in wordless response, refusing to let go even as he tried to extract himself from her grip.

"If you were so sorry, you would stop ending up in this position," she countered, leaning forward to place a soft kiss to his jaw. His teeth clenched.

"And yet," Albus responded, looking almost desolate, "I am sorry, and here we are once more."

She ignored him and placed another kiss on the opposite side of his face.

"Minerva…" he warned, though she could feel how flimsy his resistance was, a paper wall colored in to imitate brick.

She kissed the side of his neck and the artery below each ear. She watched with a half-smile as he closed his eyes.

"Please," he practically begged, his voice hoarse, "stop."

For once, she had little interest in acquiescing him. Instead she trailed her mouth up to his lips once more, and he half-heartedly responded as she drew herself carefully closer to him, all too aware that any undue pressure might hurt him. She sucked on his lower lip, tracing the line of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. When she softly cinched her teeth against his bottom lip, he gasped involuntarily and she used the opportunity to fill the small _o_ his mouth made with her tongue, drawing herself onto her tip toes to allow herself better access. She wound her hand around the back of his head, and slowly but surely, she broke down one of his last lines of defense until he had opened himself to her advances once more. Her cheeks burned red, though he couldn't see because his eyes were shut -- it was quite unlike her to be so very domineering, especially in this situation, where she was traipsing on thin, cracked ice.

Albus stumbled a little, and she pulled back with concern as she watched pain flash across his features, his hand moved from her hip to his injured leg. Understanding, she allowed and aided him as he backed into his chair, though she kept herself as close to him as she could, to be sure the brief reprieve wouldn't give him too much time to think of a better excuse to make her leave.

He fell onto the seat a little haphazardly, but instantly the pain was eased by the lack of strain. Minerva's hands still locked behind his head, she lowered herself onto him as she had done earlier, only rather than curling up like a kitten, she placed one knee on either side of him, looking distinctly catlike as she pressed her torso against his, her back arching to further assimilate them as she felt the goosebumps prickle along his bare skin. Albus' hands found the small of her back and pulled her ever more tightly, for the salves she had applied had much eased his pain, and his thumbs made lazy circles against her spine. Her spine, it turned out, was buried beneath too many layers of clothing for his tastes. Whispering a spell against her lips like a prayer, her robes magically unbuttoned and slid off her shoulders. He aided their descent to the floor impatiently, leaving her in the thin, white blouse and grey skirt required by students. She could sense him hesitating as he spotted the Gryffindor crest on her chest. It was a blatant, searing symbol of her youth, a metaphor for all that was wrong with what they were doing.

Wracked with indecision, Minerva moved quickly and without fully realizing the awkwardness she felt or the furious blush to her cheeks as she withdrew her hands from around him and made quick work of the buttons on her shirt, leaving her white skin and even whiter bra open to him. He seemed to be regaining his sense of propriety even as she did so, and thus Minerva shed the blouse completely, too nervous to look him in the eyes as his hands hovered above her skin; whether he was disgusted, afraid, or simply too proper she was unsure. Rather than asking, she simply murmured, "touch me," in his ear, and with a shudder his palms fell against the bare skin of her back, dancing up and down her arched spine as though her skin was comprised of piano keys, and he would tap out the notes to a song only he knew.

She moved and writhed and groped at and against him alternately like a cat and the uneasy, over-exposed and under experienced teenager that she was, and all at once he was inspired to push things further and stop them altogether. In the absent movement of his hands, however, he suddenly found his fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra, and even more suddenly her entire torso was naked and bared against him, pressed so tightly that he was unsure whose heartbeat echoed in his ears.

Minerva lowered herself onto her lap, still straddling him, and most every hope he had of preventing them from making an even larger mistake fled as he felt her warmth against his lap. He made a choked sound against her mouth, and seeming to realize the effect she was having on him, she began to rub against his legs provocatively; when he groaned, she smiled, her chin lifting skywards as his lips ventured down her jaw line, opened across her curved throat and across the dip of her clavicle. Much as he tried to avoid it, to think of the least arousing things he could, she found the roll of her hips impeded by his hardness, and gasped in surprise or pleasure or disgust -- he didn't know, but his consciousness was ever slipped as her hand trailed down his chest, stomach, and began to fiddle with the zipper of his pants.

"Minerva…" he breathed into the flat plane between her breasts -- he couldn't look, suddenly, couldn't let her continue. Not here, not now. It was neither the place nor the time nor the circumstances; were they to continue, she would never look back on the memory happily. She panted some unintelligible response into his hair as her fingers nimbly found their way beneath his waistband. "Listen… to me."

"Stop." He half-commanded, half-groaned as he felt her small hand wrap around him. She seemed to hesitate; he knew that she must have been at least a little uneasy, and his demand provided her with a brief second to indulge her hesitation. Even as she faltered he lifted his head to meet her burning-bright green eyes. She withdrew her hand, and everything slowed to a stop save for how very labored their breathing was. "Not now," he whispered once he was sure he could both breathe and speak coherently again, though he was sure it would be quite some while before he could form a truly intelligent thought. "I am not telling you never, so please curb the yelling. I am just requesting that you wait for a proper time, place, and circumstance. Can you do that?"

"If not?"

"You have very clearly proven my legendary composure is a myth, my dear. Believe me when I say that it is hardly easier for me to stop," he paused, swallowing, desperately trying to maintain eye contact and not let his gaze wander, "but we must. If it ought to happen, Merlin will provide us the opportunity. This, however, is not it."

She sighed, nodded slightly, her face still flushed, her eyes still sparking.

"After I graduate?" She asked, though it sounded more like a statement to him. He kissed her cheek.

"After you graduate, Miss McGonagall, I should be honored to court you in earnest if that is still your desire."

She smiled at him, about to say something coy when she suddenly realized how conspicuously unclothed she was. Blushing further, and disentangling her arms so that they could be crossed anxiously over her chest, she uncomfortably maneuvered from his lap, careful to keep her skirt down, and to avoid the yet stiff part of him she had been trying to reach earlier.

Minerva redressed with her back to him, pulling her blouse on quickly and buttoning it unevenly. She slipped her robe over her shoulders and buttoned that as well. Meanwhile, Dumbledore located his shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head. His robe followed. Within moments, they stood facing each other once more, fully clothed, and yet, somehow, more naked.

"I think that you should resume that plan you had," Minerva hedged after a beat, crossing her arms across her chest.

"And what plan would that be, Miss McGonagall?"

"The one where you ignore me."

He looked confused for a split second -- she read it immediately, and explained.

"Only until I graduate. I think that… I think that you may be right. Sir. While I still don't believe either of us have done anything wrong, I think perhaps, now, we should wait."

"You have an interesting perspective of what is right, and what is not, my dear." He said, though she hoped he acknowledged her request. It would only be too difficult, knowing now what control she might have over him if she wished to wield it, and that he was interested in pursuing an actual relationship in the future.

Minerva took a deep breath, nodding a little. She fixed her hair and moved towards his office door. Albus had fallen back into his chair, his hand kneading his injured leg as he stared after her, waiting for a response.

"I just think, sir, that whatever the circumstances, love can't be _wrong_."


	31. Kindling

They did well for a while.

She ceased to participate in class, instead burying her nose in the book and clasping her hands so tightly together on her lap that rumors began to circulate about Minerva McGonagall -- they were all insane, ridiculous stories, but her behavior during Transfiguration was so inexplicably not her own that everybody sought an explanation.

He, in turn, avoided any subjects he knew she was particularly vehement about, and quit asking questions he knew only she could answer. Minerva stopped showing up impeccably early. He stopped inviting her to stay a little late with pleasant conversation. When she walked into his classroom, he nodded and half-smiled. She would nod back and look immediately away. It was so finely honed a ritual that sometimes Minerva forgot that it was a façade -- he was so distant, so far away, now, despite being closer that she often fancied she had imagined everything. But then she would unthinkingly look up during class, and their eyes would meet. Every time she felt her face flush, and every time he seemed to lose his train of thought, tripping over whatever he was saying until she looked away. It was in those moments she remembered with a crushing sense of enormity the reality of their relationship.

As the days went on, her graduation growing ever nearer, these moments became more frequent. She occasionally forgot herself and asked a question about some of the more subjective material with that ghosting little smile on her face that made his eyes twinkle, for he knew that expression well: it meant she was looking for an argument. However, he was forced to dismiss her words every time, even though he ached to hear what she had to say, for he never found her dull, especially when she made _that_ face. Even so, their charade began to fray around the edges. Several times she lingered after the period was over to chat idly with him about some ephemeral gossip he had heard -- always, Minerva kept her distance, but the casual intimacy with which they spoke to one another would have given them away, had anyone been around to notice.

Thus, they held up admirably until two weeks prior to her graduation, where their footing irrevocably faltered.

Albus made the mistake of engaging another student's off-topic interest in the restricted section in the library. Troubadour Adams, a seventh year Gryffindor whom Minerva found endlessly annoying, was displeased that, as a seventeen year old, an adult soon to be graduating, she still had to seek specific permission from a professor to access the information.

"It is for the greater good, I assure you, Miss Adams." Dumbledore demurred with raise of his brows. "Although I have no doubt that you would use the books within for purely academic purposes, not every student is as responsible as yourself."

"So why do I have to suffer for my classmates' immaturity?" She inquired, her beady eyes narrowed. Minerva shifted in her seat.

"If I may," Minerva interjected, and Dumbledore uneasily nodded his assent for her to enter into the conversation. "I do not believe a lack of maturity is the restrictive quality. I always thought that the school would rather not introduce such… volatile material to vulnerable young minds." Her words curled with sarcasm, and Dumbledore's beard twitched bemusedly.

"Quite right, Miss McGonagall, yes. There are many that feel that allowing students of any age to read so deeply into the dark arts will encourage said students to engage in them, which is naturally to be avoided."

"But --" Interjected Troubadour, only to be immediately interrupted by Minerva, now sitting straight up in her chair, her green eyes bright and sharp.

"I think, Professor, that the restricted section has only the opposite effect. It makes one curious, and furthermore, it makes one ignorant. If more students knew all of the bleak technicalities involved in dark magic, they would be less inclined to romanticize it."

"Romanticize the dark arts?" He moved forward, leaning against a desk midway between Minerva's back row seat and Troubadour's front row seat.

"Like… the girl who dates the bad, rebellious boy. It's human nature. Everybody assumes that they can find the good in everything, that they will be the one to change things. If you'll pardon me saying so, sir, evil is, well, sexy."

"I understand you, Miss McGonagall. Every student takes a defense against the dark arts class, though, unless you have forgotten. Should not that serve to illustrate the horror that manifests in dark magic?"

Minerva paused, tilting her head at him. She forgot, more or less, that they were surrounded by her peers, all watching the exchange curiously, as Dumbledore approached once more, ostensibly to ease the flow of conversation. He stood a few feet from her now, and the formality that had previously colored their conversation fled Minerva's mind.

"Am I hearing you right? Do you agree that the restricted section should be restricted?"

"Yes."

"You would have students raised ignorant, taught how to defend themselves but never to learn what from?"

"Ignorance, Miss McGonagall, is bliss."

"Until you actually encounter that which you are ignorant of."

"Which I would be willing to wager not a one of you will. Should you wish to become an auror, the vaguer points of your education will be elucidated later on. Otherwise, the knowledge is unnecessary."

"Hardly!" She barked, her eyes wide as she stared at his quickly clouding face.

"Is it better to teach students how to tear their souls into pieces, should they ever wish to become truly evil? Will it improve your education if you can magically broil a human being without uttering a word? No, I think not. In case you have forgotten, I have seen first hand what such knowledge can do to bend and twist a young mind. And I will not allow such… carelessness in Hogwarts, Minerva, _I will not_." She knew immediately what he was speaking of.

"Grindelwald ruined people, not the knowledge. Knowledge only made people unafraid -- Grindelwald made them terrible."

"You do not know what you are speaking of." He said with a quiet swell of anger arching imposingly over his words. She quailed only slightly, her eyes tracing over the flush to his cheeks, the broadness of his pupil and how the black pressed the blue to the furthermost reaches of his iris. His tone was not just angry, but so… condescending, so sure that he was right and she was wrong; she chafed under his gaze, straightening her spine and meeting his fiery gaze with one of her own.

"I know more than you give me credit for."

He stood staring at her for a moment before responding, harshly, quietly, so that the entire class strained to hear, "you are an obstinate _child_. You know nothing of the world."

"You are a curmudgeonly old man."

"Your arrogance is astounding --"

"You think that you know so many things --"

"I know what I know, you presumptuous --"

"Don't you _dare_ call me a child again, Albus Dumbledore, or I swear --"

"You have no right to speak to me in that manner!"

They stood, face to face, red and panting with rage. Her mouth fell open at his words, her eyes wide and searching. The entire classroom held their breath. It was startling enough to see the amiable Professor Dumbledore so irate, and even more startling to see the goody-two-shoes Minerva McGonagall openly challenging his authority. More perplexing still was the casualness with which they uttered each other's names -- Dumbledore was the epitome of a gentleman, even as a teacher. It was always Miss McGonagall, Miss Adams, Mr. Monroe, Mr. Bones. And for Minerva to use his first name, especially so sharply! Nobody knew quite what to do.

"I have every right, Albus. You're mine." Minerva said after a long, tense pause, the words spoken with an impeccant bewilderment that he would become so inflamed as to undermine their relationship, as to once more draw up the wall of inequality between them. He seemed just as confused as she was, and after a moment of staring at one another, during which the entire class eyed the pair open-mouthed, they unthinkingly crashed together; later she would blame gravity. He would blame entropy. Whatever the reason, the moment their parted lips touched, the class was in an uproar.

Exclamations of "I knew she didn't get those grades on her own!" and "what in the bloody hell --!" and "they've been bewitched!" swirled around them for a split second before Albus' hands flew out in both directions, wrenched himself from her, and veritably screamed, "_obrigesco_!"

Every student in the room save Minerva instantly froze where they were. Thirty pairs of motionless, unblinking eyes stared at Dumbledore as he gazed, shocked, at Minerva.

"Oh no," she murmured, her stomach clenching as she realized what had just happened. Dumbledore didn't respond. He hadn't even the slightest idea how he had made such a fatal error. He had been so very, very angry with her stubbornness, so incensed by her refusal to see his side, and most frustratingly, infuriated that he was forced to acknowledge that, by virtue of her youth, she couldn't possibly understand his perspective anyway. And he had offended her. He had seen it the instant she stopped firing back at him, and he had been nearly repentant before she had said the words that had done him in -- Albus. You're. Mine.

Three words that wrapped around his mind and his heart and overwhelmed him suddenly with the very magnitude of his affection for her. Her face had been burning bright with passion, her eyes shining keen as emerald, so sharp and starkly intelligent, contained in the pretty, perfectly pale oval of her visage and encircled by her lovely hair that, really, he had been helpless. Since they had been avoiding one another, he had almost forgotten the truth in her words -- he was, whether he wanted to be or not, irrevocably, unquestioningly hers, incapable of resistance.

"Indeed."

"I'm sorry."

"As am I."

"What do we do now?"

"I haven't the slightest." He said contemplatively, stepping away from her and seating himself on a desk. He reached his hand up after a moment and flicked his wrist at the door, presumably to prevent any unwanted visitors as he deliberated.

Minerva nodded, folding her arms across her chest as she peered around the room, once more baffled by the sheer power he had. It hadn't even taken a toll on him, really, freezing an entire class of students. He had done it without preparation, and without repercussion. It awed her. He awed her. She adjusted her hair as she moved towards him, standing very near him with her arms still folded, her eyes on his face as he thought.

"Obviously we cannot let this get out."

"No."

"I'm going to have to erase their memory of this."

"Isn't that risky?"

"Extremely. Especially since there are so many memories to be fiddled with. I don't want to risk doing one incompletely, nor would I ever want to distort their minds in any other way. I abhor the idea of doing it at all."

"Can I help?"

"No," he responded, smiling wearily at her and brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "My darling Minerva, you were utterly correct. I am yours. I thought you ought to know, in case you were at all unsure."

"That's good to know. Especially if you mess up and end up in Azkaban."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Cheerful thoughts, then. Thank you for the encouragement."

She smiled, and he leaned in as though he would kiss her again, but at the last moment smirked enigmatically and pulled wholly away. And slowly, with Minerva perched on her desk in the back of the room, folded uncomfortably like a grasshopper, Albus made his way through the eerily still classroom, murmuring the spell under his breath and concentrating deeply as he could until he again stood beside her, looking fatigued.

"You called me Minerva." She said smugly to him, resting her chin on her folded arms with a warm smile.

"You called me Albus," he responded, though it rang dimly of admonishment. Minerva frowned slightly in response, and it took much of Dumbledore's remaining self control not to simply smile and brush it off. In truth, his name on her tongue sounded unbelievably wonderful, her accent curling daintily around it as she made it her own. But he couldn't have another situation like this one his hands. Not ever.

"So what are they going to think happened?"

"I assigned a paper, due tomorrow, and allowed everybody the class to prepare."

Minerva cringed. "You're just getting back at me for arguing with you," she responded glibly, clambering off of the table she sat on and maneuvering back into her chair.

"Unless I am mistaken, you somewhat recently claimed an intent to slap me. Might we call it even?"

"If you say my name one more time."

"Minerva," Albus half-whispered, leaning forwards to brush a strand of hair behind her ear before adding, "we'll speak freely again. Only a few more weeks, my dear."

He pulled back suddenly, and in a flurry of robes and a grand gesture of his arms, the class suddenly sprung back to life. They appeared confused for a moment, but swiftly Dumbledore's charm overtook them and they began to fumble about their bags for parchment on which to begin the assignment. Minerva felt as though she had swallowed a number of butterflies. Anxiety, adrenaline, and guilt pumped through her system. She tried desperately to focus on the assignment before realizing that she hadn't any idea what the paper was supposed to be about.

Frustrated in more ways than one and so wholly enamored to the point of distraction, Minerva gave her classmates one more thing to whisper about, one more aberrant behavior to explain -- she leaned back, and neglected to do her work.


	32. Extinguish

"I have a problem."

"You have lots of problems, Albus, you just never give me the change to list them," Aberforth replied, looking at his thumbs as he twiddled them in his lap. Suddenly, his face brightened and his eyes bolted up to meet his brothers as he asked, "would you like me to?"

"No." Albus responded shortly, frowning, one hand working through his long beard as he settled into one of the dilapidated chairs of his brother's house. The room was dark and decrepit, furniture no doubt pilfered from someone's garbage or hauled off from some half-rate bargain sale. Actually, Albus realized, eying his seat once more, his chair was a transfigured barrel. He smirked a little, despite himself -- while not clever, Aberforth was awfully resourceful. "I need advice."

"From me?" Aberforth quipped with more than a little acid, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"From somebody who could not have me fired for what I need to say," Albus returned, and Aberforth looked slightly miffed as he settled more deeply into his couch, crossing his arms in a surly manner over his chest and gesturing vaguely at Albus, silent ascent for him to speak, though he couldn't have looked less happy about it. "My problem is--"

"--Minerva." Aberforth chimed in concert with Albus, rolling his eyes. "Doesn't take those of us with average brains nearly as long to figure it out. It's just you geniuses who spend so much time tryin' to match love and logic. I'll tell you a secret."

"Oh?"

"If love is a purple sock with yellow stripes, then logic is a --"

"Yellow sock with purple stripes?"

"-- a banana. They just don't go."

Albus nodded, his brows arching in a slightly bemused fashion. "After you left, she and I spoke extensively."

"You spoke, hm?" Aberforth probed, clearly disbelieving. Albus became distinctly uncomfortable. Though he had more or less admitted his infatuation with Minerva to Aberforth, he had never admitted that their relationship had moved beyond conceptual stages.

"Yes." Albus said, though it was clear from the faint red on his cheeks that he was not being altogether truthful. "And, with my mind still muddled from our… conversation --"

"Must have been a pretty stimulating chat."

Albus glared outright at that, but Aberforth only snickered, and after a beat Albus continued speaking. "I said some things I ought not have."

"Such as?" Aberforth lead, though he anticipated that his brother said something far too mild to be of much interest. The only way Aberforth could see a real problem was if it had been something dirty -- but really, he thought further, recollecting the way with which Minerva regarded Albus upon his return, he very much doubted she would have minded.

"I lead her to believe that after her graduation, I would be willing and able to pursue an actual relationship with her." Albus looked at his lap. Aberforth raised one grizzled brow and tilted his head. He was surprised, which was unexpected, but not for the same reason that Albus was so distraught. Though his brother had not lived as a monk, exactly, he very rarely let anybody believe he was interested in a real relationship. Commitment was something that Albus seemed to skillfully evade. Really, Aberforth, figured, since he tended to royally screw the lives of his friends and family -- Aberforth himself would attest to the fact -- Albus was just probably trying to spare their feelings. Which would have been nice, if Aberforth had liked his brother at all.

"Why in the bloody hell wouldn't you?"

"Because it's _wrong_. Why doesn't anybody understand that? The girl is a fourth of my age --"

"--more than a third, really--"

"--and has a glorious future ahead of her. Tying her down… it would be like clipping the feathers of a phoenix moments before its first flight."

"Oh, poppycock. If the girl likes you, let her."

"It's not that simple. It would be the height of naivety for me to act as though her life wouldn't be in grave danger from the first time I hold her hand in public. I have accumulated a fair amount of enemies, the list of which promises only to grow."

"My, aren't we conceited."

"Immensely. There are a great many people who would elicit great pleasure from hurting someone close to me."

"Good thing our family's dead and you detest me. Why don't y'just keep it a secret?"

"That would be vastly unfair to Minerva."

"Why?"

"To have to keep it a secret forever? I couldn't ask her that. And people would begin to talk, after a time. Wonder why there wasn't ever anybody in her life. Rumors, hurtful rumors, would spread. She'd have to stomach it in silence. We could never have children, either, nor could we really live together. Parties would have to be attended separately. I would have to bring a pseudo-date occasionally, to keep up appearances, and Minerva as well, which would be greatly unpleasant. She would not, with me, be able to live a normal, happy life."

"I'm glad you have it all figured out," Aberforth responded after several moments of silence. He eyed his brother speculatively. "Can I throw a new… what's it called… variable into your equation, though?"

"By all means."

"What if she doesn't want a normal, happy life?"

"Then she needs somebody to want it for her."

Their conversation dissolved from there, into a trivial argument and then into grumbled farewells. Albus left his brother's house feeling hollowed out like a jack-o'-lantern, bright and glowing to students past and present he passed by, but, with the thought of what he was going to have to do stewing in his mind, distinctly empty.


	33. New Beginnings

_A/N: Don't kill me, please. I have only the best of intentions, and the blanks will be filled in due time._

* * *

Minerva McGonagall was twenty-six, beautiful, hard-working, and to top it all off, brilliant. Most importantly, though, she couldn't find a job. She sat, her hair pulled haphazardly onto the top of her head with a pony tail stretched to the brink of its elasticity, filing frantically through the stack of papers on her desk. They all read similarly -- Durmstrang: thanks for your interest… need more experience… sure you're wonderful… wish you luck; Beauxbatons: appreciate your application… no need for an interview… position as good as filled… maybe try again in a few years… good luck in future endeavors. She had even gone so far as to apply to several American institutions, all of which had turned her down kindly, saying that they were impressed by her, but needed greater persuasion, in the form of experience. Minerva suddenly slammed her hands on her desk, embittered by the word, the papers bursting into delicate flames and dissipating as soon as they had dissolved into char before her.

"Minerva?" Came her mother's voice as the elder McGonagall cracked open the door to the study and peered in at her daughter, "are you all right?"

"I'm perfectly fine." Minerva responded levelly, peering at the ashes on the desk and sweeping them away with a pale hand. She sniffed, straightening her spine as she met her mother's matching emerald eyes. "I just need more _experience_." She added sourly, a frown becoming her. Her mother slipped further into the room, short where her daughter was tall, solid where Minerva was fey, but possessing of the same pert features and sharp eyes so that the relation between the two was not in the least bit subtle.

"Is that the last school?"

"Yes. Fitfully rejected from each and everyone with, of course, the fondest of regards from every headmaster in every English-speaking school on the globe."

"Well, not _every_ headmaster," Minerva's mother hedged, looking away from her daughter as soon as the tell-tale fire to her green eyes flared. Her temper visibly danced beneath her somewhat calm exterior.

"I told you, I only applied to see if I could --"

"Minerva, dear, it's your only option --"

"I'll just have to find another." She stated stubbornly, even as her mother moved around to the proper side of the desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew the letter, placing it in front of her daughter. The cheerfully scripted acceptance was blatant, even if one were only skimming.

"I don't see why you don't want to go. You loved school."

Minerva was silent.

"Really, Minerva, what's so bad about Hogwarts? I always thought it was the best school on the continent. You did have so many exchange students in your class…"

"I just can't, mum."

"But why not? _You liked it there_. And from what I hear, that headmaster is quite the little wizard, don't you know. World famous, Albus Dumbledore. He was your favorite teacher, wasn't he?"

"No. Yes." Minerva stopped. Bit her lip. Shifted her weight. "I'm going to bed. I'll sleep on it." Minerva said, placating her mother. She stood, bent to kiss her on the cheek, and then left the room, her spine straight as a rod.

Free of her mother's lovingly concerned but ever-prying gaze, Minerva's face crumpled into an expression of blankness that suggested not ambivalence, but an utter insecurity in what emotion she ought to be experiencing. On one hand, the prospect of returning to Hogwarts as a teacher made her veritably hum with excitement. She _had_, as her mother said, loved Hogwarts. The dim hallways, the intricate tapestries, the dancing portraits and drizzling rain that dotted the giant windows in the eastern extremity of the castle. The red settee beneath that stained-glass painting of some deity she never bothered to identify. The cherry wood mantle of Gryffindor's common room. The crazy, ethereal feeling of passing a ghost in the hallway… yes, Minerva had felt more at home at Hogwarts than she had ever felt anywhere else. Especially now -- twenty-six, mind sharp as a tack, and living with her mother.

She wanted out, and not only for reasons of pride. She wanted desperately to accomplish something. She wanted desperately to teach. And to teach in the halls that she had once prowled as a prefect -- the thought was sublime. But then, as always, there was that shadow moving swiftly in to cover her sunny thoughts.

Minerva had behaved most irregularly upon receiving the Hogwarts letter offering her a position -- she had nearly had a spasm, clutching her chest, her eyes suddenly wide as her thumb touched the final swirl that punctuated the end of his name. It had been so long since she had thought of him. So long since she had seen any corporeal proof that he existed anywhere but in the most deeply repressed recesses of her mind. It had shocked her. Confused her. Her heart had pattered like a frightened dove. Her mother had asked her if she was okay, and she had brushed off her concern. But she had decided almost immediately that she wouldn't go back.

Now it didn't look like she had a choice.

She fell back onto her childhood bed, rubbing her temples with her index fingers and weighing her options. Minerva had always, always prided herself on her strength. She was no weak, spineless woman -- were there ever a living picture of feminism, she was it. With her sharp tongue and temper like a maelstrom, nobody had ever quailed her. But the thought of rushing back to Hogwarts, of seeing him, made her nearly nauseous. Except, she thought vehemently, _I'm over him_.

Minerva had dated. Minerva had almost been engaged, once, but it hadn't worked out for many reasons, most of which she had come up with herself. Regardless, Albus Dumbledore hadn't been on her mind for at least eight years now. He had promised, once. And then he had taken it back.

She sat up, released her hair from its confines, and returned downstairs to pen her acceptance. Minerva McGonagall wasn't about to turn down the best opportunity that she ever may have received because she had once fancied herself in love with someone who didn't, now or then, love her back.


	34. Mirror Image

The decision had not been made lightly. Albus had debated. He had weighed the pros and the cons. He had spent countless hours scouring Minerva's resume, comparing it to every other one he had received upon his transition from Transfiguration Professor to Headmaster. He recognized every single name, but for one (which had been a marriage proposal in disguise, to which Albus had been equal parts disgusted and amused), and though Minerva was perhaps the least qualified, he felt inordinately confident that she had the most potential. Which was both good and bad.

Good, because he felt comfortable with his decision as soon as he had made it, and his gut was usually a pretty reliable source. Bad, because though his gut felt good in that way, he had felt quite ill since he had received her acceptance. Their correspondence following had been terse. He had thanked her gratuitously, and sent her some papers to sign. She had thanked him in kind, and returned the papers. They had only sent letters sparsely following, the most recent one being from Minerva, telling Albus that she would be available to arrive at Hogwarts early to learn the ropes. As always, Albus' eyes lingered on the little blot that appeared at the base of the 's' in _sincerely, Minerva McGonagall._ It was distracting to him, this hesitation, because it had enough implications to keep his mind whirring dizzily at all hours of the night.

However, by the time Minerva arrived he had tucked them away as he did so very many things, and was ready to completely ignore whatever had once been between them. Besides, though the torch he had always, always carried for her had not quite been extinguished -- Albus was quite sure it was going to take a massive amount of self-control to keep his composure upon seeing her for the first time in nine years or so -- he was more than sure her affection for him was long gone. It had been, he was now convinced, a school girl crush on her part, and a foolish indiscretion on his. He had gleaned any news of her he could at various social gatherings -- last he had heard, whatever chap she was seeing was planning to propose. And he couldn't have been happier for her if he had actually been even a little happy for her.

When a tickle of magic alerted him to her entrance unto the grounds, he immediately stood from his desk, straightened his vibrantly green robes, and apparated where he stood. Getting around the anti-apparation wardings for Albus wasn't all that difficult. It was, however, a little tiring, and a little irksome to the school itself, as though Hogwarts was offended by his nonchalance in breaking its boundaries. Usually he avoided it unless it was necessary, but though he effectively lied to himself about many things, he was not in any way able to lie about how eager he was to see her.

He landed several yards from her, swaying unsteadily from his abrupt landing, his eyes already on her approaching figure. Albus straightened his glasses, a smile curving his rosy lips as she stopped a few feet from him. For a moment, a grin overtook her features, and the wind was knocked right out of him. Nine years had done her very, very well.

Seventeen year old Minerva McGonagall had been lovely. Young, spirited, and quietly gorgeous, she had always been eye-catching to him. Now, though, twenty-six -- was she really that old? He thought bemusedly -- year old Minerva McGonagall was screamingly beautiful. Her face had lost its baby fat, and her cheekbones were revealed to be high and defined. Her nose was straight and aristocratic. Her eyes, as ever, were entrancing, sharp and bright as the grass at noon on a July day. Her skin was still pale, but lacked the inconsistent coloring of youth. She had grown taller, and the angular, grasshopper slenderness had faded into the graceful carriage of a woman. Her smile lit up his world, reminding him just how very dark it had been lately --

-- but then the moment ended, and her grin turned into a soft cough stifled by a fisted hand and an awkward shifting of her eyes away from his. Her expression sobered.

"Good morning, Miss McGonagall," Albus announced, and she nodded politely.

"To you, too, Headmaster."

He nodded back. Then they stood in silence for several moments before Albus suddenly spluttered into action. "Would you like to me to send your bag to your room? I should like to reacquaint you with the grounds, if you are not opposed to it, and I hate to think of your poor arm cramping with the effort of levitating your bag all across Hogwarts." He smiled that peculiar, kiddy smile of his, and her expression lightened, but her grin remained hidden.

"Thank you, sir," Minerva returned respectfully, taking a few steps towards him and handing him her bag. The moment it touched his hands it seemed to vanish. She started a little.

"Boo," he said playfully, his teeth glinting between his lips as he looked from his empty hands back to her. Minerva once more looked almost inclined to laugh, but instead seemed to decide he was far too close -- which, truthfully, he was -- and backed slightly away, her expression cordial as ever.

Their tour was brief. His elaborate explanations and silly anecdotes were met with faint smiles, and only on one occasion was he rewarded with quiet laughter. However, by the end of the tour she stood less like a statue and more like a human being, which he regarded as a positive development. He could only guess that, after being away for so long, she had only just realized how very old he really was -- but, as Aberforth often told him, he may have been being a bit egocentric.

The second to last room he wanted to remind her of was the Transfiguration classroom. He swept open the door with a broad gesture, segueing from a narrative about a particularly surly portrait into the room that had, until this year, been his abruptly, "and I assume you remember this room. I haven't had much time to redecorate it, I'm afraid. Tomorrow, I think, we might discuss what your wishes are for the décor and see if they cannot be accommodated." He stopped in the center and turned to look at the owl-eyed Minerva standing behind him, staring at him as though she had never seen him before. "Is something wrong?"

"No, sir, I just…" she trailed off, turning to face the opposite wall, ostensibly to observe the other half of the room, but once she moved he could no longer see her face. "This room has a lot of memories."

"The whole school is full of memories, Miss McGonagall," Albus returned gingerly.

"But I spent half of my life in this room. With you, if you recall, sir." She turned to him with the first genuine smile he had seen on her face since she had arrived. "I worked as an assistant to a lesser known transfiguration master a few years ago. And he was old, really old, and sometimes he forgot that myself and the other assistant were still young and relatively inexperienced. Every time he asked something outrageous of us, I was always able to do it because of what you taught me in our lessons."

"You were an exemplary student."

"You were an extraordinary teacher!"

"Rose-colored lenses, Miss McGonagall, I'm sure." He responded with a chuckle as he stepped slightly towards her.

"No. You really changed my life. No other teacher took the interest in me that you did." She grew uncomfortable, realizing what she had said. To be honest, she hadn't taken interest in any of the other professors that she had in him -- and judging by the look on his face, he had realized the double entendre as well. Her cheeks turned a little red and she looked away -- she felt as though if she peered too long at him, his eyes would pin her down and she'd be forced to speak. And she didn't want to. Being near him was unpleasant enough, but to discuss what had come to pass between them? Neither Albus nor Minerva was sure that they were strong enough to admit how weak the other made them.

"Shall I show you to your rooms, hm?" Albus said after a few uncomfortable moments. Minerva nodded, and he led her there. Once at her door, though, he realized how wholly improper it would be to enter into her rooms without an express invitation. So he just said, "here you are, Miss McGonagall. Your bag is within."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're extremely welcome. You have the rest of the evening to yourself, I'm afraid, as I am going to be occupied in my office well into the morning. If you need anything, though, that's where I will be." He paused. "Tomorrow is a little too far in the future for me to see at the moment, but we may talk more if you should like, as we happen to be the only staff presents for the demure of the month. I shall send Fawkes with a tentative schedule. Will that suit you?"

"Perfectly well, headmaster."

"Is there anything else, Minerva?" He inquired, her name slipping out unbidden. He blinked, as though surprised it had come out of his mouth.

"Yes," she said, nodding, "don't call me Minerva."


	35. Interlude

_A/N: WOO. Broke two hundred reviews! And it's all thanks to you wonderful folks who stick with me despite my mild insanity, intermittent updates, and sometimes awful writing. Thank you times two-hundred. And to show you my gratitude, here's another update!_  


* * *

After he left, Minerva collapsed against the inside of the door, her hands groping for the clip holding her hair up. It felt too tight, suddenly, and as she tore it out she peeled off her coat as well before shucking of her shoes and socks. Her hands flew to the chain around her neck, and seconds later her glasses went sprawling across the room.

And then she sat.

Still and silent, the only movement existing in the uneven undulation of her breath. Stripped of all extraneous layers, she no longer felt as though the air was far too thick for inhalation. She covered her forehead with on hand, trying to calm her painfully racing thoughts. She had been so sure!

So hopeful, really, that the spell her had so entirely cast over her during her school years had since waned. Minerva had wanted to start all over, to give him the opportunity to play the role he probably always should have -- that of mentor. Friend, maybe. But the moment she had seen him, her first thought had been to embrace him, which wasn't in any way acceptable. So she had closed herself off until he had showed her that dreadful room, still garishly, opulently decorated by Albus himself, bright and geometric and so full of quirky life that she felt as though he was at all times surrounding her, which was unsettling enough, but as memories within the room had begun to stir and play through her mind, her equilibrium had been thrown out the window. In any case, she had been robbed of her ability to feign indifference.

She remembered the hundreds of chess games they had played. The times he had lent her a book that he thought she would enjoy, and how she would stay up all night poring over it with relish, tracing her fingers over his notes, cramped into the margins and spotted with the humor she so adored, and occasionally even a mention of her, which always made her smile, because she knew he had had her in mind the whole time he was reading. She remembered those times he had offered her solace in light of those silly, childish ails, and slowly, from there, her memories of him and the room became more personal. Inconspicuous interactions -- his hand would brush across her shoulder, his thumb would trace a circle on the inside of her wrist as he showed her the correct wand stroke, his eyes lingering on her too long. She remembered the stolen kisses, and more vividly the times that she had begged for more -- and as her mind stalled on those moments, she found herself caught in his eyes like a deer in headlights. In retrospect, she had never fully appreciated the potency of his gaze. And from there her nostalgia had developed into anger.

Minerva remembered how careful he had been to evade her at graduation. Of course, their lack of recent interaction had been a mutual agreement, so she hadn't worried until she had her diploma in hand. She remembered clutching it tightly to her chest, her eyes bright and swimming with the future as she peered out into the crowd. She waved to her mother and grandmother. And then she had spotted him, already removed from his front-row seat and pushing his way through the crowd to the back. He had turned to face her, and she had grinned so broadly it felt as though her cheeks would burst. She had pointed to her diploma, as if to remind him of their deal. But his smile had been forced, his eyes dark, his wave distracted as he turned away and moved from the merry congregation of students and teachers into the castle.

The conversation that followed was something she had pushed as far away from her consciousness as possible, but as she and Albus had walked back to her new teacher's quarters, she had been fully reminded of it, and the anger had swelled unexpectedly within her, coaxing her tongue into cruelty before she even processed it all.

And now she was here, and he was the only other human in the castle for almost four weeks. Minerva stood abruptly and paced the well-furnished, dimly lit room for a moment. She still felt as though something heavy was sitting on her chest. After several minutes she decided that there was nothing she could do, and thinking on things any further would only drive her mind. For the next few hours, she explored her new quarters as both a cat and a woman before showering and going to bed. Her dreams were muddled and empty, and when she woke up the next morning, she felt anything but well-rested. 


	36. Lead In

The only thing Albus could liken morning tea with Minerva to was pulling teeth. He asked her if she wanted tea. She almost grudgingly accepted. He asked if she wanted milk for it, and she said no, even though he knew that she liked milk in her tea. When he commented on it, she nearly jumped down his throat. Albus withdrew with raised brows, lifting a scone to his mouth and nibbling thoughtfully as Minerva brooded over her teacup before him. He made several attempts at conversation, and she effectively shut each one down. When she had finished, she waited for his cup to be empty, and then politely excused herself. He didn't see her for the rest of the day.

The next two weeks passed in this fashion. The only time they spoke was over breakfast, and occasionally over dinner. Once, under the guise of discussing curriculum, he had coaxed her to join him for a snack before bed. But she never warmed to him. She was hardly the Minerva he remembered, and her stoic behavior flummoxed him beyond words. Although he in no way wanted to resume their previous relationship -- he still fully and sincerely believed it was for the best -- he had hoped that they could attain some sort of normalcy. He had missed her friendship. But each attempt to bring her out from behind the wall she had placed between them was met with stronger opposition, and he found himself almost desperate to break it down.

So, when she had finished her dinner, and was waiting for him to be done so that she could depart, Albus suddenly put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and eying her blatantly.

"Is something the matter, headmaster?" Minerva inquired, though she seemed uncomfortable in asking.

"I was intent on asking you the same question."

He was met with confused silence.

"You have been acting as though you cannot stand to be in my company, and to be honest, my dear, it has begun to bruise my ego." He elaborated, and Minerva's skittishness as the endearment unthinkingly left his lips caused the furrow of his brow to deepen. "Could you perhaps shed some light on the matter?"

Minerva seemed to debate for a moment, and she idly polished her silverware with the cloth napkin folded in her lap. When she finally looked up at him, her response was a succinct, "no."

"Please," Albus implored after a moment of silence, leaning towards her, hating the necessity of prostrating himself before her so, but seeing no alternative; having her so close but so incredibly distant was doing nothing short of killing him, "I must know if I have done something to upset you, Minerva."

"Do not," she seethed suddenly, her eyes flashing with a familiar fury, "call me that."

"It is your name!" He exclaimed, exasperated as he rose to his feet, his hands gesturing broadly, displaying his agitation clearly to her. "We were once such wonderful friends, Minerva, were we not? Why are you fighting so hard to prevent us from becoming so again?"

Minerva fell silent, her anger cooling. He watched her with baited breath as she shifted in her seat. She brushed the crumbs from the table before her. She folded the napkin anew, and placed it beneath the proper cutlery. Once her eating space was properly organized, she too stood and faced him, her hands crossed neatly behind her back, her face maddeningly composed.

"We were many things, Albus," Minerva said softly, her voice so sad that the headmaster's brow deepened, his lips parting slightly with surprise. "But I am not sure that 'friends' was ever one of them."


	37. Spiritus Asper

After Minerva had exchanged general pleasantries with her mother and grandmother, promising to meet them in about an hour to celebrate together, she veered back into the school in pursuit of Albus, who had been conspicuously missing as the seventh years and professors exchanged tearful farewells and proud monologues. She found him sitting at a student's desk in his classroom, and with a smile, Minerva approached him from behind, wrapping her arms around his neck with an easy affection she did not often display. His muscles tensed beneath her touch.

"Guess what?" She breathed into his ear.

"Mm?" He responded, and she could see his cheek shift to accommodate a small smile from her profile perspective.

"I have graduated. Officially. I am no longer your student." With those words, she shifted around and brazenly into his lap. She felt so very wired at the moment, a blush didn't even reach her cheeks. She had made it out of school. She had a man whom she loved more deeply than she had ever thought possible sitting before her, and his promise to court her tucked like a vain hope in her pocket. Minerva kept her arms wrapped around his neck. She smiled at him, and his expression was weary, but his eyes were warm and fond.

"That is good, for I would hardly allow one of my students to address me thusly," Albus responded, gesturing with one hand to the way she was perched on his legs. There was something odd in his tone, though. It set her on edge -- probably it would have affected her more, but she was so very thrilled with everything that any negative thoughts were effaced from her mind as she leaned forwards to kiss the side of his neck. He smiled thinly. "How does it feel, my dear, to nevermore walk the halls of Hogwarts?"

She laughed, missing the gravity that centered his words in her high. "I will have to come and visit you, of course." She stated, before adding, "is it permissible for me to kiss you?"

"Only technically," Albus responded. Her lips twisted slightly at his cryptic response, but she leaned in all the same, pressing her lips softly to his. He was still under her touch for a moment, and she moved her mouth slowly, gently, tenderly persuading him to respond, and moments later her back was arched so that her torso was sealed tightly against his, and both of their mouths were opened wide to the point of vulgarity. His hands traced the subtle bumps of her spine, and she ran her hand through the wild tresses of auburn that covered his head. It was he who pulled away from her, breathing heavily as she lowered herself from her position slightly above him onto his lap once more, a dreamy smile on her face. "Minerva," he breathed sensually, the smell of lemon-drops surrounding her as he seemed to search her face. It was only then that worry really began to seep through, and with an arch to her brows she inquired as to whether something was wrong. He only responded with her name -- "Minerva…" He repeated, kissing her lips softly, chastely, before pulling away once more.

She became more uneasy as his expression grew more and more serious, more and more upset. He said her name twice more, and each time the sound of it chilled her further. 'Minerva' had begun to take on the ring of 'farewell'. "I don't know what you're thinking, but you should stop…" she murmured, smoothing the wrinkles of his forehead with her slender fingers. He smiled unevenly.

"Minerva," was all he said in return, the word like a plea on his tongue, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before he reached into his robes and withdrew a rolled bit of parchment with her name etched onto the front. As he pressed it into her palm with a kiss to each finger as he closed her hand, Albus slid her off of his lap, and with a harried look, vanished through the door.

_My darling Minerva_, she read, opening it hastily as she fell into the chair he had been sitting in a little dumbly, still cling to denial, still shaking the significance out of his departure until she was nearly convinced he had only gone to use the restroom, and would return in a moment. The parchment unrolled onto her lap.

_It is with the utmost sense of pride and accomplishment that I congratulate you on your graduation. You are by far the most brilliant pupil I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. Your skill in transfiguration is unsurpassed by any, and I doubt in no time, it will surpass even that of myself -- no promises, though, of course. _Minerva smirked. _I haven't even a shred of concern for your future, either, for I know you will achieve whatever you desire. You shine more brightly than any star in the universe, and unquestionably the world will see that, as I have. As long as I may teach, I shall never forget that there is no boundary to that which the human mind may learn, even from unexpected sources. Which, in supposition of this statement, you have taught me._ Minerva's breath hitched a little. The implication was faint as a fading scar -- did he mean to say he would have the opportunity to forget her?

_It is with the very fondest of regards that I wish you luck and happiness, and for the latter reason that I bid you farewell at all. I know that I have said things, and that as a result this may come as a surprise, but I feel it to be best for both yourself and mine if our acquaintance ends here. There are many things to see in the world, Minerva, many things to do, and to tie oneself down is to limit the vistas one may otherwise have delighted in. So be free, my darling girl, and drink fully of the beautiful future you have ahead of you._

Minerva's tears fell over the words _Yours, as ever, Albus Dumbledore_; the ink ran down the page until it hit the impediment of her thumb, and she sat there long enough for every finger to be rimmed in black, her face stony and her back ram-rod straight. Her shoulders never shook, nor did a sound pass her lips. She read the letter several more times, and by the end had ascertained that his unwillingness to continue their relationship was half due to what he had stated in the last paragraph -- to tie oneself down is to limit the vistas one may otherwise have delighted in. He had said oneself, not herself. Not yourself. One. I feel it to be best for both yourself, she reread, and mine.

Minerva crumpled up the letter and threw it away as she walked out the door, wondering why in the world she had not seen this coming.


	38. Tacit

_A/N: This is short and a little silly, but I need to get back into the swing of things. The next chapter should be a bit more filling. (:_

"This is news to me," Albus responded after several tense moments, his expression more sober than she ever remembered seeing it. It made her all the more uncomfortable. "I considered you a great friend. It makes me vastly unhappy to think that you did not feel the same way." Minerva choked out a harsh bark of laughter that sounded so unlike her Albus almost peered around to see if anybody else was in the room.

"I considered you a friend at some point, of course. You know that well enough. But even now… even after all these years, I can't help but think that friends do not do to one another what you did to me."

"And what was that?"

She stared at him, open-mouthed. To be confused was one thing. To be intentionally dense was another matter entirely. Albus Dumbledore had the brightest mind in the last hundred years, and he knew her better than he knew himself, so Minerva knew full well his bewilderment was little but a front. "You used me." She said after a pause, her voice a hollow tone that he didn't recognize, as though even she knew it wasn't true. Still, she soldiered on. "I waited for you. And you left me in the dust, Albus, with a _letter_. You hadn't even enough respect for me to tell me to my face. So, headmaster," she said, her tone abruptly changing into a businesslike, brisk cadence he had heard her use once when speaking to a divination teacher she found particularly stupid, "as your respect for me is clearly unchanged, I must ask that you allow me to return home until the start of the semester. I will work under you as your employee, and nothing more. We shan't be friends, but colleagues. I expect that you at least pretend to show me the respect you allot to the other professors, nothing more, nothing less."

He sat back in his chair, his head reeling. He adjusted his glasses slightly and peered at the floor for a moment before he tilted his head at her and finally closed his mouth. This was not the Minerva he remembered. Her anger baffled him, and her coldness made him feel as though somebody had carved out every organ in his body and left him empty. Minerva McGonagall had rendered him speechless many a time, but never out of sheer confusion, never because he did not trust himself to speak.

And so he simply nodded.

"I trust you will return in time for the first term…"

"Of course, Professor."

"Very well, then," he said, and before he even had the chance to say goodbye she had whirled around and vanished through the door, leaving him to collapse against the back of his chair and try and organize the chaotic thoughts she had stirred violently in his mind.


	39. Introduction

Minerva returned, as she promised she would, in time for the term. She arrived promptly, two days before the students were to come with the rest of the staff -- how she had known what date the others were asked to arrive was beyond him, but he supposed she had her ways. Certainly, though, she had not asked him. He didn't even receive note that she had arrived. Albus had actually begun to worry that she had perhaps abandoned her post until she showed up at the staff meeting, tucked into a chair in the corner of the room, understated in a set of nondescript black robes; still, his eyes drew instantly to her. His brows raised in surprise, and she afforded him a polite nod before her eyes drifted to the window and she watched the rain trickle down the glass. He had many things to say to her.

Their last conversation had left him wounded, for more reasons than he immediately realized. At first he had thought his frustration was simply due to her pain, to the inexplicable suffering she seemed to be caught in. But the more he had contemplated, the more he had realized that what she had said made very little sense to him. There appeared to be bad blood between them -- could it all be due to a misunderstanding nearly a decade gone? The thought gnawed at him.

He had considered writing to her whilst she was gone, but in the end he was very much aware that using a letter to explain himself to her would be counterproductive, as it seemed that the whole issue had stemmed from one in the first place. But here was not the place, now was not the time.

Albus clapped his hands together, his glasses falling down on his nose as he waited for the chatting staff to turn, quiet, and face him. Minerva was the first to do so; ever the supererogatory pupil.

"Good day," he greeted in the brightest tone he could muster, given the solemnity of his thoughts, "and allow me to be the first to welcome you back to another school year."

"Peeves beat y'to it, Albus," chimed Professor Grubby-Plank from her seat next to the dour Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Albus inclined his head curiously. "There was a banner in the entryway welcoming us in. 'Cept it rained on you as you passed under it."

"How delightful," Albus responded with a smirk, and not without irony. The professors tittered. Of course Minerva's expression shifted not an inch. Albus sobered a bit. "There's not much to discuss, I think. I expect your lesson plans to be made available for my perusal by the end of the night. I trust you all received the notice about curriculum changes over the summer?" Mutters of affirmation filled the pause in his words. "Wonderful. If there are any complaints, comments, et cetera, you know where to find me." He punctuated his words with a warm smile.

Albus stepped back from the table to depart when it occurred to him that, despite occupying an undue amount of room in his busy mind of late, he had forgotten Minerva.

"Ah, yes," he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he sought her gaze. He could see the slight pink to her cheeks -- she had already begun to fume. The smile he gave at the thought was unplanned, and the friendly roll of her eyes she directed back at him made him think that she too had forgotten herself for a beat. "I nearly forgot. As I have naturally retired my post as Transfiguration professor, we have a replacement." He extended his hand and curled his fingers, beckoning her forwards. She obliged, rising gracefully and moving to stand a polite distance from him.

Without thinking -- it was so natural -- he reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, saying, "I'm sure many of you remember Miss Minerva McGonagall from her years as a student here. She will be replacing me; I am sure you will make her feel very welcome."

Everybody greeted her warmly, standing and walking over to shake her hand and pat her on the back, ask her how she had been in the intervening years. And then they all cleared out.

It was only then that Albus realized he hadn't relinquished his grasp on her. He withdrew his hand as if suddenly burned, and opened his mouth to apologize, but not before he caught the softness on her face. He quickly closed his mouth.

"I apologize for my prior behavior," Minerva said quietly. She appeared as though she had more to say, and so he waited, painfully conscious of how very close he was to her. She peered downwards. "You were the best friend I ever had."

She kissed him quickly on the cheek, and then slipped out of the room to follow up on an invitation to have drinks with some of the staff, leaving him watching the door swing on its hinges, wondering why he was considered the greatest wizard of the age when the power she wielded over him was infinite.


	40. Explanation

_A/N: Trying to fix the quality thing, as there has been a noticeable decline, as well as the issue of quantity. This is a little anticlimactic, but a pinch of character analysis isn't bad, right?  
_

* * *

That meeting had been her undoing.

Minerva had been entirely resolved to cut herself so far off emotionally that he would be rendered helpless to break down her wall, no matter how formidable his attempts would be. He had hurt her, and gravely. Seeing him again made her almost ill with all of the things she felt -- she had been so, so sure that she was over him. That, since any interest he had shown in her had at some point diminished, hers had as well. Why should she want to be with somebody who didn't want to be with her? But one piercing glance, and she had been sent reeling backwards, head over heels into oblivion.

But upon returning to Hogwarts after their spat, her immediate reaction to his renewed nearness had cooled to a smoldering ash, and she found herself incapable of blocking him out. And what was more, she had not interest in doing so. He had been right -- though their romance had perhaps been their, there had been a friendship before that, one that had kept her sane, kept her happy, kept her from being alone all through school. Her thoughts had always been wild, so distanced from everybody else that forming genuine bonds was nigh impossible -- nobody ever understood. But he did; he always had. Perhaps they were on the same frequency.

Whatever the justification, there had been a brief moment -- when he had nearly forgotten to introduce her -- that her short-temper had begun to flare, and he had known. She could tell by the way he had looked at her, and Minerva had felt, for a moment, as though nothing had changed. As though he was still a moon orbiting her world, eclipsing the sun and drawing her swiftly to the realization that she needed no other light. And when he had put his arm around her so thoughtlessly, so innocently, she knew that she was going to give in. And if she had already come to such a conclusion, it seemed silly to prolong the tensions between them. So she had relented, apologized. The great, stubborn, barb-tongued Minerva McGonagall had admitted her wrong.

Whilst she was mature enough to accept that acrimony between them was foolish and detrimental, she was not entirely resolved that they ought to renew their friendship. However, as usual, it was as if he sensed her hesitation, as though he saw her teetering on the precipice of total surrender and deemed it necessary to give her a rough shove. A day after the meeting, a letter inviting her to a chess match in his office that evening arrived. She had sighed upon receiving it; he knew her only too well.

On one hand, whether or not she wished to rebuild their relationship was indeterminate. She had been slighted by him, or so she thought. Upon reflection, she felt used, and she was yet to young to look back on her later school years objectively -- the red-hot passions of youth still held sway in her veins, and so her anger, though cooled, was still an undercurrent. On the other hand, she hadn't lied when she had said that he was the best friend she had ever had.

He had provided the solitary solid relationship in her life. Her family was a hodge-podge of could-have-beens and ephemerons, and that was where most everyone found their rocks during stormy times. Her father had died, and with him all connection to his side of the family tree was severed; though at one time Minerva had been close to her paternal grandparents, after her father's death they had withdrawn contact entirely, as though even the vague reminders of him in the contour of her nose and strength of her jaw were too much to bear. Her mother was the last of a dwindling breed, with no siblings and a sickly mother. Minerva's mother, while ever-present, had always been a bit of a basket case. With a scattered mind and self-deprecating streak, Minerva had always been her mother's shining beacon of hope, her mother's chance to go back and do things properly. Needless to say such a mentality was inclusive of heartache -- Minerva loved her mother, but she had always been the one to raise herself, contrary to tradition.

Albus, though. Albus had always been there, ready with a lemon drop and a smile, ever able to tear her mind from a constant and aging track of responsibility and pressure and bring her to a place where there was only the blue of his eyes beneath the glinting half moons.

Despite his positive influence, years and years of independence had taught her to function thereat -- she had no true need of others, she thought, and so to divorce herself from Albus in the most literal sense of the word wouldn't harm her in the long run. She needed no one. Not even him.

However…

She never could pass up a good chess game. And so, huffing a sigh and twisting her hair into a haphazard bun on the top of her head, Minerva shoved the invitation into the trashcan and departed her quarters in favor of his office, trying to convince herself that it was competitiveness and not something deeper that inspired her to accept his invitation.

.


	41. Frailty, Thy Name is

"You are much improved," Albus said, covering his mouth with his hands, his brow deeply furrowed as he surveyed the board in a manner that suggested he was not so pleased with her improvement. Not now, anyway, Minerva knew—afterward, he would no doubt express his pleasure with how much better she had gotten, but now, in the heat of battle, he was clearly fraught. She couldn't resist a grin.

"Thank you."

"It was not, I think, so much a compliment." She laughed a little, and his eyes found hers and narrowed, causing the quiet laugh to turn into an outright giggle, rising above the tension and making his visage at once turn playful. He finally moved a piece, uttering the command with the air of a petulant child before settling back in his seat. "I have not lost a chess game in nearly a decade."

She raised her brows, pushing her glasses back on her nose and meeting his flustered gaze defiantly. His cheeks were colored. "You don't want me to say it, then?"

"Get it over with." Albus said seriously, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned further back in his flamboyantly colored armchair. Minerva grins delightedly, one hand patting her dark hair self-consciously as she gave the kill order.

"Checkmate."

The king fell, and Albus's hand flew to his heart in mock horror, though his smile gave him away as always. They sat in companionable silence for several moments, warmed by the fire. Minerva's mind drifted to the many chess games they had played in years prior mistily, lulled into an odd twilight state by a combination of the half-finished tea at her left hand, the roaring fire, and the pleasantness of his company. His presence had always been like a lullaby to her, though she never could have recounted why. It was only the clink of Albus's cup that woke her from her reverie, and when she peered up she caught sight of the grotesquely purple and orange clock perched on the far wall of his office. She stood up abruptly.

"I hadn't realized it was so late," Minerva said, patting her bun once more, "I should be getting back." She paused as he stood with a placid smile, adding, "an hour and a half ago." His lips twisted further at her characteristic wryness, reaching out to clasp one hand around her shoulder.

"It was not I who suggested the third game, my dear." Her heart trilled despite herself as the endearment passed thoughtlessly between his lips.

"You didn't exactly fight me on the idea, either."

"Fight you?" He exclaimed, tossing his head back and laughing at the ceiling, "why, Minerva, well as I know you, I should hope you know me well enough not to think me so foolish!"

She grinned, leaning into his touch. "Albus Dumbledore, quailed by an employee. What will the tabloids say?"

"I must beg you keep this between us." He said as she turned, his hand sliding to her back as he guided her towards the door. Her hand on the knob, she pivoted to face him once more, but was caught unexpectedly by his eyes.

Bright, fierce blue that consumed her instantly—she knew her cheeks to be suffused by red instantly. The firelight glinted off of the half-moon spectacles, winking at her above the endearingly crooked line of his nose. Beyond that, she could not contemplate; beneath his nose rested his mouth, lips parted slightly, surprised by how close she suddenly was. "I have missed our games, Minerva."

"Games?"

The word seemed to carry the weight of the world, falling like lead into her consciousness as she tried not to waver on her feet. The long-fingered hand that had rested so gently on her back began to burn as it held her near him, sitting on the small of her back. He drew her closer—her breathing stuttered as she fell, she thought vaguely, back into the rabbit hole—his lips filled her sight—

He hesitated, though, before his lips touched hers. She felt so absurdly frail, trembling like a silly school girl, cowed by the enormity of her feelings for him. She had presumed time would have eaten away at them, but here, so close to him once again, she could not deny that she felt no less enamored, no less star struck by his presence than she had all those years ago. Minerva felt a terrible ache in her chest; his kiss was only half-remembered, and she wanted to close the distance so badly that she felt, ironically, physically impaired by her pathetic longing.

Albus backed her against the wall, and as she reached up to touch the side of his face, he grabbed her wrist in a startlingly rapid motion, encircling it with his long fingers and drawing her arm over her head, pinning it against the door as well. The portraits murmured conspiratorially.

And then they just stood. Him, hovering over her, his body now pressed against hers, his lips poised over her open mouth; she, breathing heavily, resisting the urge to writhe like a cat against the door, to be of capitulation to the feelings he sent ricocheting through her. Merlin, she had never wanted something so badly, she was sure --

Minerva shifted, but as she leaned forwards to finally capture the elusive kiss -- the ramifications of which she decidedly ignored -- he had withdrawn, and instead planted a kiss on her cheek, his hot breath lingering against her skin, smelling of sugar and peppermint; she was given to the impression that if she hadn't been pressed against the door, she would have passed out.

"Goodnight, Minerva." He said stepping back, his arm still around her as she leaned forwards to kiss him on the cheek as well.

"Goodnight."

She went back to her room trembling. Whether it was a residual effect of his closeness, of the coiled feeling in her stomach, or anger at her own frailties she was unsure.


	42. Imperceptible

The change following that evening was almost imperceptible.

They never spoke of the almost-incident, not even in passing. But now, when he wanted her attention, his hand would wrap tenderly around her arm. When they spoke, they made eye contact through every word. At meals, when a funny thought would occur to him, he would lean over to her, placing a hand on the back of her neck so as to warn her of the forthcoming whisper in her ear. They greeted one another with a gentle peck on the cheek, but it was so chaste a motion that the staff hardly noticed—it was just dotty old Albus, they thought, with his endearing eccentricities. A few evenings she would meet him in his office for a game of chess, and afterwards they would retire to the couch in the corner. He would summon a book he most enjoyed reading, and of course she had read it too—their tastes were so similar—and they would discuss it in depth. By the end of their conversation, she would be sitting near enough to him to smell the chocolate on his breath, for his beard to tickle her face as she leaned over him, her hand clutched softly on his arm as she read over his shoulder. His body would be angled towards hers. When they said goodnight, the kiss was not so quick and cordial as it was in the public eye; they would linger too near one another, heady with all those intimate details of one another they otherwise ignored.

Nothing about their relationship really changed, though. They still played at being friends. They simply became more tactile, leading the staff to casually remark upon how well they worked together. Inwardly, however, they were divided.

Minerva mentally maintained that she did not need him - but she had come to the conclusion that she did want him. He had hurt her, but the more time they spent together, the more she realized that they were perfectly suited. That he made her unrealistically happy. That he could handle her temper and her strictness better than anybody, and knew just how to soothe both. That, though the McGonagall temper was no joke, though her obstinacy could be doubted by no one, she had forgive him despite herself.

Albus, on the other hand, maintained that he was terrible for her. That she deserved a more fulfilling relationship than that which he could give her. Still, he could no longer deny that she forged in him the same reactions she had as a student. He knew his self-control in her company to be entirely limited. Thus the nights when he had thought of her far too much during the day he asked her not to come - buried in nostalgia, his defenses were frailest.

But she was stubborn. And so when he told her he would be busy, many evenings she showed up at some ungodly hour anyway with her small, pale hands curled around a mug of hot chocolate that she placed in front of him with a small smile.

"I hope you don't mind. I thought your energy would be running low about now."

"How kind of you," he responded, shuffling some papers on his desk around before taking the mug to make it appear as though he had been working and not daydreaming.

"It's not quite kindness. The staff worries that you might overdo it one of these days. Professor Binns requested that I see to your health quite enthusiastically." Albus chuckled at the image of an enthusiastic Binns.

"You are attempting to see to my health with sugar? I daresay a sugar-coma is in no way beneficial."

"No, but it is warm, and I would bet you're immune to the stuff by now."

Albus smiled stiffly and brought the mug to his lips, blowing on it softly as he sought something to look at other than the witch standing before him.

Earlier that day, Albus had crossed paths with Grubby-Plank. He had struck up a casual conversation which had, predictably, turned to the newest addition to the staff. Grubby-Plank had been effusive.

"She's wonderful," the professor had said with a smile. "Really, when y'brought her in, I thought she was too young. But she's sharp. She could give you a run for your money, I wager."

Albus had tried to steer the conversation in a new direction. But eventually he had been given no choice but to engage, and he never had been able to keep himself from gushing about Minerva. It had been a crux even when she was his student. The professor seemed to recall as much, and had countered his glowing praise with a too-knowing, "she always was a pet o' yours, Albus. Even when she was a kid."

When she was a kid. Oh, the words had gone through him like gunfire. At first was the suffocating guilt of his decade-prior behavior. And then came the memories of those times he had given in to his baser instincts...

Needless to say he had been preoccupied with thoughts of her all day, and to have her suddenly before him was a little startling.

"How has your first week gone, Miss McGonagall?" she raised a brow as he reverted to her former title, but refrained from commenting.

"Well enough. I still feel as though I swallowed several hundred butterflies, though," she admitted, her hands clenching before her, leaving no secret as to how she felt about the matter. "I actually came here selfishly hoping you might help calm my nerves."

Merlin. Albus could think of a good dozen ways to get her to relax. He kept his tongue for lack of suitable alternative.

She glanced at the chess board. Following her gaze, he relaxed slightly. "How could I refuse?" He stood with a sweeping gesture of his arm, and she grinned before going to sit down in her usual chair. He sat too, and they began to play in silence.

Halfway through the game, Minerva paused.

"Were you nervous when you first began teaching?"

Did he ever not want to discuss his teaching career with her. He smiled abstractly. "Of course."

"It goes away, though?"

"Never entirely, but one forgets the nervousness exists after a while."

"Promise? After tomorrow, then, I shall be done with these dreadful butterflies?"

"There will be other times, dear, that you will encounter those pesky creatures." He responded, his small smile fading as she made her move, and he unintentionally forfeit his queen.

She fell silent for a few beats as he thought, and she weighed her options as well; she sensed his disconnect, and though she knew not the reason, she could speculate.

"When else during your teaching career did you encounter them, sir?"

"Plenty of times."

"Any that I would recall?" She had come to the conclusion that she had been far too passive of late. If she wished to assert her desire to revisit the romantic aspect of their relationship, she needed to assert it. She sat up straighter, looking for all the world like the straight-laced goddess of war, green eyes blazing fervently.

Dippet began to mutter furiously in his frame.

"Quite a few." Albus responded, his cheeks slightly red as he looked intently at the chess board. For all of his intellect, he could not riddle her. "But I'd best just make a move, hm?"

His eyes met hers and she smiled slightly, feeling her bravado flare.

"Please." He could not miss the double entendre there. Her eyes seemed to search him, open him up, pillage him - those catlike eyes, so wise but for the youthful face they highlighted. He swallowed and pretended that he missed it, her meaning. He commanded his knight.

She captured it.

His bishop went next.

Then two pawns.

A rook.

Their eyes were locked. She had him in check. Again. He wondered vaguely whether she had ever let him out of heck from that first game they had played all those years ago.

He surrendered, and she was clearly surprised. The greater meaning evaded her temporarily.

Albus stood, regarding her as magnanimously as ever. "Splendid game, my dear." He proclaimed, and the twinkle of his eye struck her as being a bit woozy. She felt her advantage flicker into existence.

"You surrendered," she chided weakly, standing and approaching him slowly. Something about the way she moved seemed suddenly new to him. She had always exuded a sort of stunning self-confidence, but this was beyond her usual strength. He swallowed as she stopped far too near to him for his liking.

"It is getting rather late, perhaps you ought to-"

Her eyes had him as she nodded. He was fairly sure she wasn't agreeing with him despite the motion. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek; her lips lingered against his skin, parted enough for Albus to notice and resist the urge to make a sound.

"Evening, Albus."

"Evening, my dear." What about her had changed in those moments that set her off of her usual self in his eyes? He felt something in him quiver as he leaned forward to return the kiss to her cheek. Her hand wrapped around his arm as she felt his beard roughly against her skin; oh, she swooned.

Her touch compelled him to linger as he pried his lips away, his cheek resting against hers for a beat. His breath curled around her ear and her heart trilled.

"Good night," she repeated, turning her head to kiss his nearby cheek again.

"My dear," he reiterated, feeling himself slipping despite his better judgement.

"Mm." He kissed her cheek.

"My darling." She kissed the corner of his mouth as his arms wrapped around her.

"Yes?"

"Dearest, darling Minerva..." He crooned, kissing the tip of her nose dotingly. "I must once again ask that you leave." He pulled her closer.

"Once again?" She kissed the bit of skin tucked between his hair and beard, beneath his earlobe.

"Did I not request the same thing years - oh, my - years..." Her lips clinched over his earlobe, her tongue working the tender skin. "Years ago..."

"Did I listen then?"

"You never listened..."

She kissed a path to his lips whereupon she placed a chaste touch to the center of his mouth. His eyes closed. "I must implore you, Minerva. This is the height of foolishness..."

Minerva didn't respond, her hands coming to the sides of his face.

"Please," he said, and her brow furrowed. Her resolve wavered; he sounded so distraught. "I did not send you away frivolously."

"You did not…?" she spluttered, suddenly confused. Her hands remained on either side of his face, her brow furrowed as she regarded him. He could tell immediately that he was tiptoeing around her temper, that he was a millisecond away from setting her off like a land-mine - perhaps it was better if he did so -

"It is as foolish and impossible now for us to be together as it was -"

"You did not… _send me away_?"

"I…"

"Am I a dog to you, Albus?"

"Why, Minerva, no -"

"Am I a servant girl -"

"What are you -"

"A child, then -"

"You aren't -"

"A student, perhaps, that you are so above me as to send me away like -"

"My wording was bad, I admit!"

"It wasn't the words, Albus, so much as the action behind them," she said, her mood abruptly cooling, the flame that had sprung to life in her eyes smoldering suddenly, and Albus let his glasses slide down on his nose so as to be unable to see her properly. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, and he was sure that seeing her expression would undo him. "It is my life, too. You cannot send me away unless I want to go."

"Minerva…"

"I'm quite happy where I am." She concluded, shifting her body against his and making him conscious of the fact that his arms were still around her. Her lips began to play about his jaw, and she swept his beard aside to trail her mouth along the hidden skin of his neck. His fingers curled tightly against her back.

"What you ask of me -"

"-isn't really all that much, particularly at this moment when I'm simply asking you to stand still…" she said against his skin, the tantalizing contact forcing a groan from between his lips.

"-is impossible. You do not - _will not_ - understand what I am saying to you."

"If you're still trying to say anything coherent at all, I'm not doing this properly." She responded, irritation coloring her voice. She pulled back to peer at him. His eyes were clouded almost angrily, his face distorted in an expression caught somewhere between incensed and confused. She could feel the tension emanating off of him in waves. She knew that she should probably at least listen to him, but to know that - for all of his rebuttal - he was so open to her advances made her impatient.

Thus, when he opened his mouth to argue again, she rolled her eyes and kissed him, full on the lips, just to stop that infuriatingly brilliant brain of his from coming up with any other inane arguments. 


	43. Prophecy

_A/N: we're nearing the end, my friends...  
_

* * *

"Minerva!" he halfway shouted, latching both hands on her shoulders and pushing her roughly away from him. Her temper visibly flared, her voice rising in a cry of frustration, but before she could say any actual words, Albus rolled his eyes and stepped toward her, abruptly and paradoxically pulling her toward him once more. He pressed his mouth to hers—she was so surprised that she froze, wide-eyed, and for a beat resisted his unexpected advance. Within a moment, however, she had melted against him, her arms around him as he kissed her long and hard, one hand holding her tightly to him, the other pulling gently at her hair. His lips pressed desperately to hers long enough that she thought she might suffocate, but for fear of discouraging his long desired affection made no move herself until he pulled away, placing a series of kiss along her jawline, trailing down her neck; she sighed her contentment, a satisfied grin appearing on her face.

Just as suddenly as he had begun, however, he pulled away again, holding her determinedly at arm's length as she stared a little dumbly at him, her lips red and kissed. "Now will you listen to me?" he asked sternly, his brow furrowed.

She licked her lips, still a little dumbstruck, still swooning a little, but nodded, and he nodded back, apparently satisfied.

"Wonderful. Sit."

"What?" she asked as he gestured toward the chair, usually designated for unruly students, on one side of his desk as he himself withdrew to the headmaster's chair.

"It simply will not do to have you so near me. Your powers of persuasion are much improved," he said, somewhat grimly, as he sat down.

She moved to sit in the chair, still bewildered, but a brow raised sharply. "You say that as though I didn't have you wrapped around my finger as a student."

"No. I say that as though I was occasionally able to pretend I had any control over myself around you when you were younger—you were not so forward, and I... I was not so weak in my resolve."

Minerva didn't respond. It seemed very much as though things were going where she wanted them to go, so she wasn't about to interfere. At the same time she almost wanted to object. She was perversely tempted to hold up her hand and say _no, wait_._ This simply can't be_. This was a relationship that had oft characterized her youth; naturally she had other experiences, other significant memories, but generally when she looked back on her years at school, his was the face that swam in her mind's eye. When she was studying, apprenticing, and learning, he had been conspicuously absent. Naturally she hadn't pined. It wasn't in her nature. And she certainly hadn't felt _bad_, per se, because that they had not remained in contact was entirely his prerogative, and Minerva McGonagall allowed no one to make her unhappy but herself. That he had wounded her so deeply was a reality not fully realized until she returned to Hogwarts and he was before her once more and everything had come rushing back—

He had affected her so fulfilling the nebulous role that he did. What would happen if she allowed him to become something more significant, more defined? She had encouraged this, yes. She wanted this—or what she assumed would exist after a bit more persuasion—but she was also afraid of it. Her hand reached up to touch her lips briefly as she stared at him. Albus folded his hands neatly before him on his desk as though he were about to begin a staff meeting, and Minerva wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

"This is not a good idea."

"Now, I—"

"Just listen, my dear, please. It is a very bad idea for you and I to be involved. Someone in the position that I am in cannot have a steady romantic relationship; any significant other I may have could be targeted by an enemy. As such, were we to become involved, we would not be able to tell anyone."

"And? That doesn't bother me in the least. I'm a very private person. I should hardly like to be ogled jealously by your adoring public, thank you very much."

Albus sighed, leaning his head on his hand and rubbing his forehead gingerly. "You do not comprehend the implications."

"I think that I'm entirely able to make my own decisions."

"We could never marry."

"Presumptuous, Albus..."

"We could never marry. We could never have children. We could never go on vacations together, nor behave as a couple at a restaurant. There would be no anniversary parties from friends. If one of us were to become ill, St. Mungo's would not recognize the other as family."

"I'm accepting of all of this."

"I do not want to do that to you."

"Albus," Minerva said sharply, sitting up straight. He had to smile, if not only slightly—_this_ was the Minerva he knew and adored so. Her lips pulled taut. "I am an adult. My decisions are mine and nobody else's."

"Fine." he said, though he didn't sound very happy about relenting. His expression grew darker, and Minerva leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and thrumming her fingers impatiently against her thigh. "That is not all, though."

"Oh?"

"No, my dear."

"By all means, continue," Minerva said wryly, extending one hand as an invitation for Albus to continue deterring her from engaging in a romantic relationship with him—she couldn't help but think that if he had wanted to accomplish that, he shouldn't have kissed her.

"I am going to die, Minerva."

She sat up, alarmed, eyes suddenly wide, heart aflutter. "_What_?"

"Not now, calm down," he said with a small smile. "But eventually. It is my part—there will be another war, as there was one before, and I will once more preside over it. I do not pretend to be arrogant enough to think my luck will withstand."

"That is absolutely absurd."

"Not really," Albus said, "just a pinch unpleasant."

"Is that all, then? I won't have to deal with people interrogating me about the great Albus Dumbledore, and one day you shall die. Indeed, I must be crazy to want you still!"

"You do not yet understand." Albus said cryptically, rising to his feet, his fingers trailing along the edge of his desk as he approached her. "You will, and you will regret this."

She stood too, meeting him halfway. Minerva reached out, grabbing at the edges of his robes and straightening them as an excuse to bring herself nearer to him. She peered up at his face, smiling; it was a stark contrast to the sobriety with which he regarded her. "Regret what?" she asked.

"I will have to keep secrets from you. Very many of them. It will make you bitter."

"Regret what?"

"I will have to take other dates to Ministry functions in order to maintain my image."

"Regret _what_?"

"You will hate me, one day."

"_What am I going to regret?_"

He sighed heavily, moving forward to rest his forehead against hers. Their glasses clinked charmingly together, and they stood like that for what seemed like hours. His arms wrapped around her, folding neatly on the small of her back, where he drew small circles with his thumbs. "Staying with me tonight."

"Presumptuous, Albus," she repeated, though her lips had curved into a smile as he leaned down to press his mouth too gently against hers. She arched toward him, but he pulled tantalizingly out of her reach, his hands trailing from her back. He grabbed one of her hands and began to step backward toward the door to his private rooms slowly. His expression had lightened, but it was still apprehensive, as though he expected her to bolt.

"Confident," he purred in response.

As they vacated his office, the portraits were abuzz with exclamations of disbelief. Old Fortescue cried out with admiration, that the "headmaster managed such a lovely young thing". Dippet was the most impassioned, shaking with fury in his frame.

"It'll be okay, dear," Dilys Dirwent said consolingly from the adjacent portrait, looking quite concerned. "I'm sure Professor McGonagall knows what she's doing, and the Headmaster isn't exactly a—a—_lothario_, Armando, honestly..."

"It's inappropriate, immoral, and unacceptable," Armando huffed. "Mark my words, Dilys, this will end badly."

The sound of the headmaster's door locking echoed in the silence that followed Dippet's decree.


End file.
